

See Through Myself

By

Colby Van Wagoner

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Published by:

Colby Van Wagoner

Copyright © 2019 by Colby Van Wagoner

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please buy another copy. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. All rights reserved by expressed ownership of the author. Any unauthorized use or reproduction of this work is expressly forbidden, in any form, whether a paper document, electronic distribution, or any other distributed means, or for redistribution or display.

ISBN 13: 9781099940286 (Paperback)

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Acknowledgements

For my Mom, Lynda, who gave unconditional love, inspiration, and wonderful memories as my guiding light. You saved me, and I miss you always. To my father, Gill and Julie Van Wagoner for your endless love and support. To the best cats and three wonderful little souls, Boots, Sage, and Sirus. Vaughn "Uncs." A special thanks to Larry, Heike, Danny, Angelo, Mary, and Walker. Kathy and Daniel for becoming such great friends and family. Thanks to the good people of Eureka, Utah. Thank you to all my friends and you, the reader, who continues to support my work as it evolves and becomes published. You inspire me and influence the motivation to develop my craft.

Best wishes to you and yours in all your future endeavors.

Other titles available from the author:

Baggage – Act 1: Quickies

A Time for Heroes: 2017 Las Vegas Shooting

H.H. Holmes: The Devil in Me

Crow Mountain Series

Massacre Cave

Crow Mountain

Return to Crow Mountain

The Life of Zeke Slade Book series

Ranger - Book one

Fever – Book two

Compound

Dead in Love

Volume One – (The Volumes)

Earth Mongers

Jack and Jillian Children's Book Series

Visit the author's website for updates on future books: @ www.colbyvanwagoner.com

"One learns the craft, and then casts off. One hopes for gifts. One hopes for direction. It is both physical, and spooky. It is intimate, and inapprehensible." - Mary Oliver

The River of Memory

Our stories are in no way ordinary. We are unique vessels distinctly wired to seek out reasoning, to understand the context of our emotions, and seek positive social growth. We display complete and incomplete navigations throughout the interpretation of narratives because that is an inherent flaw in human nature. It is the narrative that matters, not mere facts from life. Memory ignites thought to form during the creation process of extraordinary stories by which the mind reveals conscious and subconscious conceptions. To heal comes as a result of the permission to feel pain and hurt while processing an ability to develop strength and encourage bravery. Life is a relentless journey compounded by unknown forces of nature, all of which are hauntingly beautiful, organic, and surreal.

Where I go to is near the riverside. A light breeze begins as my hands brush across the tips of the nearby plant life. There are no present threats nearby as I kneel close to the water's edge — the river of memory. The imagery appears in the water's reflections; the passing faces of people I recognize among a million experiences and nostalgic past recollections. Flashbacks occur through broad, colorful spectrums of spinning dreamscapes. Thought flows viewed in synthesis with the river's motions as a collective, where a blend of experience and memory mix with the stream's current, allowing for each recollection of picturesque imagery.

Water is life passed through all energies supplied by the river and stretches across the land. A river's branching sources enrich survival for landscapes and wildlife through its abundant saturation. Step from the shallows of the riverbank, embrace a calmness within peaceful senses of my vessel. The river of memories invokes thoughts to flow. Sink beneath the depths of the waters, all vulnerable stimuli come alive, in all movements of acquiescence. A mind and river, both of which have created a consciousness awareness and recollection of these experiences brought forth through profound powers surrounded by nature's energetic forces. Water reminiscent of the vast depths of the unknown regions of the mind. As an equivalent to the branches of river systems stretching across landscapes, their purpose of ensuring their paths reach a destination.

Such as each brain fibers are axons firing synapse of motions, the same flow of thought energies brings together a life force throughout regions of the brain. Thought motions with correlation to the purity of fresh clarity or haze in murky content, as compared to water, also show what energies transfer enrichment of thought, mood, and memory. Thoughts require speed; speed requires motion, sustained by continuous flows of elevated energy and processes of memory retention, positivity, and physical strength. In contrast, still water will stagnate to impurity, lack filtration, convolute unhealthy stasis, due to a lack in the flow of creative energy, and the environmental stimulus becomes weaker.

Waters of the river of memory present image refractions, both clear as glass or distorted when appearing below its liquid surface. Memories will not always translate precisely by what the mind perceives as truth believe or true reality. Throughout the lengthy paths of the river's currents, stretches often move at a rapid pace. Water collides with rock and debris to present hazardous obstacles to avoid, winding through bends, where curves in the course presents a variety of unseen threats. Along the course of the river, skies above open to release their flurries, wraths of lightning and thunderous roars. The darkened clouds release a barrage of downpouring rains during the storm. The repetitious pouring rain creates liquid veils, painted between the serene landscape of the flora of the trees, masking the mountain side.

Memories can drift away as quickly passing rapids crash in the strong pull of currents along the river. Caught in turbulent moments of life or swiftly changing in progressions along the journey through the rapids. Experience happens just as quick, to become unexpectedly caught under a flurry of chilling white-water challenges along the river's path. Treacherous experiences clash against rock barriers during the vigilant drops, aiming in each new direction chosen during the journey down the river's twists and turns.

The strong pull of the current soon fades, and the river's drastic descent levels to a slow pace. Anticipation through the expected potentials of hardships pass, as each experience of processed events become stored within the mind. The moments to drift along the glassy surface of calm waters are pause for reflection. Inside the mind's river of circuits, life's memories become stored. The positive and negative remembrances, in wait for later moments in the life of solace, or to which we share with others we meet along our journeys further down the river. The river of memory soon joins with the ocean expanse combining a collective conscious of opportunity in unique connections with others. Each life experience becomes a unique and precious experience throughout all lifespans. For all intent, I do consider myself present in the moment, still alive and breathing.
An Abnormal Birth

My birth was on March 7th, 1973. My mom, Lynda, gave birth at 4:23 p.m. in Utah's American Fork Hospital. Her first child, born two years prior, a girl. Initially, everything appeared normal. A baby introduced into an unfamiliar environment and begins to experience the surroundings of its new world. A newborn receives its routine cleaning, swaddled inside a warm blanket, and placed in the comfort of maternal arms. Dad manages to display his proud grin through racked nerves.

Baby cries, "I need everyone to know I am here and not pleased with this situation!" the first chance to express frustration — the process of birth a stressful experience for both mother and child.

The mood calms, and all those involved settles in a somber environment to which mother and baby have their first moments of imprinting through connections of coos and scrunchy faces. Silly cooing voices exchanged with sighs of relief, streaming tears, and joy. Each parent pleased to welcome a new arrival. After the doctor approves mom's discharge, the family departs with baby cuddled in her arms. Father guides the wheelchair toward the family car. Everyone returns home to adjust, rest, and settle in for the routines ahead.

Dad and mom would share stories of the hardships that took place during the birth and all the earliest memories of my childhood. The first is a complication that prevented the doctor's approval for mom's discharge from the hospital. I had survived the miracle of birth, only for the nurse to discover a slight abnormality. Doctor Larson, who performed the delivery, continued with his "business as usual" attitude. I continued a tirade of screams, "Congratulations, Lynda and Gill, and you have a newborn baby boy!" Comfort and pain, good times, and bad.

Dad questioned, "Doctor Larson, does his stomach look normal to you?"

The doctor looked closer, "His stomach area appears enlarged, unusual," the umbilical cord cut and clamped.

At this stage, the nurse interrupted, "I am going to weigh him, clean the fluids, while the doctor performs the first examination." She placed me in the small baby cradle. Dad overheard, "Doctor, could you look at this," her busy hands swept cleaning pads across my skin.

The doctor turned, "Excuse me, for just one moment, Gill."

The nurse gently wiped around my stomach, "I can feel a lack of muscular durability in the lower stomach area."

Dr. Larson pressed around my stomach, "Normally, there would be much stronger stomach structures," as he studied the area, "I agree it appears unusual."

"I will use caution," she replied.

"Thank you for your diligent focus. Also, not to put heavy pressure on the stomach, until I can proceed with further examinations."

The doctor shared his first assessment, "Your son has an insufficient muscle structure in the stomach region. There are concerns with swelling of his stomach."

"What does that mean, doctor?" dad inquired.

"For the moment, I cannot present a diagnosis. In further examination and tests, I will schedule routine x-rays, blood work, and a urological evaluation. We must schedule a follow up appointment as soon as possible."

"How soon?" dad asked.

"Let's schedule an appointment, first thing, tomorrow morning. Colby's appointment is the top priority. I want to ensure there are no internal issues. Please, come to the hospital's emergency room if there are any problems or any signs of possible issues."

Mom showed concern, "Does everything else appear normal?"

"Yes, all your son's other functions are normal to the best of my knowledge, examinations, and experience. There is no internal bleeding, injury, or damage. I hope to discover minor nutrient issues or a diagnosis along the lines of a nutritional deficiency." The doctor shifted through some paperwork, "Perhaps an intravenous route of vitamins will solve the issue. We will then have the possibility to determine a complete diagnosis," as he scheduled the arrangements for the appointment.

Mom's discharge from the hospital had not been an expected joyful departure. Mom wheeled from the hospital's front entrance and escorted to the family vehicle, cradling me in her arms, far from the perfect delivery with hopes for a healthy newborn child. There was worry, and extreme concern between two parents' left to contend with the stress their newborn had a type of congenital issues. Dad drove us home in the old Ford pickup truck.

The next morning, without any emergency issues, my parents returned me to the American Fork Hospital. Dr. Larson asked my parents to join him in his office, "From the examination, results show your son has abnormal stomach development, a lack of sufficient muscle growth in the lower stomach region. My concern is there might be a nourishment related problem." He read the paperwork and studied x-rays, "However, another diagnosis could be urological issues with a lack of stomach development," unaware of the exact diagnosis, the doctor was concerned.

"Is there nourishment you could provide or any recommendations?" father and mother showed more concern.

Thankfully, the doctor was proactive, "I reached out and made a consultation," more specifically, made a particularly important phone call. "Let's not start the nourishment regimen. I set up a referral with a urologist in Provo, Utah, because of what I have seen in the examinations," the appointment and consultation with the urologist that ultimately saved my life.

"Another examination appointment?" mom replied.

Doctor Larson provided assurance, "A specialist with more experience in urological medical practices. The specialist's name is Dr. Joseph Armstrong. A urologist and surgeon. The appointment is for this afternoon."

"That soon?" dad and mom seemed panicked.

"Colby has not urinated since yesterday's discharge. These are the first of the examination results I have discovered. However, Dr. Armstrong will provide a more detailed explanation and urological assessment."

Doctor Larson handed the paperwork and assessments to dad, "We should take these examination results with us to the urologist?"

"Yes, Gill."

"Thanks, Doctor."

"Gill and Lynda, please let me know if there is anything else you need from me. Keep me updated on your son's progress," mom teared up as dad consoled her.

My parents walked the hallway. Each of them passed me between their arms, consoling me and each other, and exited the hospital. Never once hesitated in their drive toward the specialist's office. Since the urologist's appointment was the same day, there was another drive from the hospital to the other doctor's office. From American Fork to Provo, Utah was about a thirty to forty-minute drive. Enough time for the concerns of two parent's minds to wander without answers or understand as to what was exactly wrong with their newborn son.

It was in the first meeting with Dr. Armstrong after my birth, and I underwent multiple examinations. Multiple blood tests, x-rays, poked and prodded with needles. The human laboratory test subject. After the urologist's examinations, the doctor sat with my parents and explained an official diagnosis, "Your son has been born with a rare birth defect."

Dad replied, "What kind of birth defect?"

"To be certain, important consultations from what I see here in the first results," thumbs shifted through the pages of paperwork, while his pencil scribbled notes, "The birth defect is Eagle-Barrett Syndrome, also known as Triad Syndrome, or 'Prune Belly Syndrome', because of the shape of your son's..." he paused, "...what is your son's name?"

"His name is Colby."

Dr. Armstrong leaned back in an office chair with a charismatic and kind smile, "I like that name," and continued, "the shape of Colby's stomach is abnormal because of the lack of stomach muscles. I don't care much for the term Prune Belly Syndrome. My diagnosis for the term of Colby's birth defect is Eagle-Barrett Syndrome, named after the two doctors who researched, studied, and have developed wonderful and reliable, step by step, procedures we are going to take to take and make Colby survive and recover."

"What are our next steps?" mom asked.

"In your son's situation, I will need to obtain research material, schedule examinations, assess his test results, and determine how far the birth defect has progressed. The next step will be the surgical procedures required for the best possible outcome. The most significant issue Colby faces is survival, but the chances for recovery appear good. However, both of you need to understand Colby will require a series of surgeries."

Mom looked at dad, "Surgeries?"

Dr. Armstrong provided more details, "After viewing Colby's examination results, the diagnosis of Eagle-Barrett Syndrome appears to be moderate to severe in progression. To be sure, I would need your permission to reach out and make professional consultations with other urologists. If that is all right?"

"Yes, of course," my parents agreed. "Anything you feel will help Colby's survival, Dr. Armstrong."

"A diagnosis of Eagle-Barrett Syndrome aligns with all assessment, symptomology, and tests for the diagnosis. Your son is only the 28th patient on record to survive with the birth defect as of March 7th, 1973."

Dad and mom surprised at the low survival rate, "There are only 28 babies to survive?"

"Yes," the doctor explained, "this also means with my official diagnosis, and only 28 prior patients, it just so happens the medical research is extremely limited. Urologists have not performed this type of surgical procedure." Scary for two parents to consider their newborn might not survive. Dad and mom could only look upon me and wonder about my future. The probabilities of my survival and considerations of death.

The doctor shared another frightening revelation, "There is a chance Colby might not reach the age of two or live past two years of age. So, each year of survival is unknown. To survive to the age of twelve and, then, to the age of sixteen is also a rare situation. The research showed 50% of children born with Eagle-Barrett Syndrome do not survive. 20% do not survive birth. The other 30% pass away before the age of two."

The symptoms included with this rare congenital birth involve three main groups of medical issues or triads (three symptoms) — first, a lack of developed abdominal muscles. Without stomack muscles, the skin on the stomach area wrinkles like a prune, and it appears to look like a Buddha's stomach. Second, one functional kidney, another reason for surgery. Third, are urinary tract functions through the bladder and urinary tract, another reason for the required surgeries. Not all these organs were functioning the way they should be.

The doctor could not repair abnormal stomach muscles already inside me. I would never have a normal stomach like other children, or as an adult. My doctor explained, "This might be a rare birth defect, and I will rely on my professional urological experience for the required procedures. Your son's situation is unique," his example, "but if Colby is the 28th baby to survive, only 28 doctors have performed this type of surgery with success."

"Chances are not so good, and we should prepare for the worst?" dad prepared in his way for the unthinkable outcome.

"Not necessarily since this is my urological area of expertise. There is still a high probability for success," our doctor continued, "even with limited research available for treatment. A successful outcome is possible." Doctor Armstrong had prepared my parents for the possibility of an unsuccessful outcome.

"What are the causes?" My father asked.

Dr. Armstrong explained, "The information shows babies who develop Eagle-Barrett Syndrome may not have received enough amniotic fluid. Infants in utero might have developed lung complications due to a build-up of fluids, which cause pressure on the baby's chest."

"Could it have been prevented?" Mom was now searching for other answers.

"In certain cases, like all other medical conditions, to catch a medical issue in its first stages is the best chance for treatment. In your case, an ultrasound throughout pregnancy might have shown if the baby had issues. Such as underdeveloped lung problems, even bone or muscle abnormalities in the stomach and urinary tract problems. However, these examinations reveal issues in the later trimester of pregnancy."

"Not much could have been detected in the earlier stages of my wife's pregnancy?"

"There is always a possibility," Dr. Armstrong added, "but even with limited information in the follow up procedures, treatments, and medical research, doctors have little methods about the urological procedures to perform during pregnancy." Even scarier for my parents is the effect on an unknown future, how to move forward in life, with a child that faced these complications. Parents make sacrifices and learn to make the necessary adjustments to keep a child alive with any extreme birth defect, illness, or diseases. There are major pressures on both parents and families.

At six weeks old, Dr. Armstrong decided to recommend surgery. Dad received the first phone call as he was about to leave work, "Gill, I must stress the importance of Colby's surgery to proceed. Colby will not survive with his current urological conditions."

"I can immediately clear my schedule for the surgery when you can bring Colby to the hospital," dad left work as he hung up the phone.

He prayed over why this was happening to a baby, young child, and his son, "Was there something that we could have done better that might have prevented the condition, before Colby's birth?" overcome with the confusion and guilt, he broke down in tears. A father's love for his child, an inner feeling overtook him. A feeling he received was that It was not his or mom's choice, nothing anyone could have done to change the situation. My dad felt it was my path and chosen as my life's purpose.

With the first surgery scheduled, my parents took me to the hospital, "He looks so innocent and precious," mom looked on with love and affection at my small body. One can only imagine the intense pressures placed on my parents and family because of the limited knowledge of rare congenital births of this type. In the early 1970s, medical research was scarce, along with limited technology for detection and prevention procedures.

I was about to have surgery with an unknown outcome, even whether there was a chance to survive. Admitted to the hospital, now was the time nurses and the doctor prepared for my first major surgery, "Dr. Armstrong, is there even a chance for a successful surgery?" dad was concerned and prepared for the unthinkable.

"I have done many similar surgeries, all the research, and have enough experience in urological surgery. Colby's survival rate is high," Dr. Armstrong, a dedicated and caring doctor, "every patient is my highest priority, Gill." Should the surgery turn out as planned, there would be a long recovery process to heal if I survived.

Dr. Armstrong started the first stages of the delicate surgical processes to repair the urethra. The urethra connects to the bladder. Except, the procedure would attach my urethra along the inside stomach walls. A procedure that would allow the bladder to drain the urine through two holes cut in my sides. The doctor inserted two special tubes into the sides of my stomach, which linked the urethra. My bladder would drain through the tubes.

Surgical procedures would repair internal problems with the bladder and the kidney's position. The birth defect causes the bladder, kidney, and other organs to become tied up and jumbled together. Each of these organs must become separated and repaired to function. Most babies with Eagle-Barrett syndrome who survived birth are only born with one functioning kidney. Severe cases require multiple kidney transplants, and after recovery, constant kidney dialysis placed on a machine.

Dr, Armstrong emerged from surgery, "Colby's surgical procedures appear to have gone as expected. The surgeries were successful, and he will be prepped and moved to recovery."

Mom and dad held each other, "When can we see Colby?" father asked.

"in just a few hours. Please be patient, and a nurse will come and take you to him." Doctor Armstrong took my mom's hands and patted my dad on the shoulder. My hospital recovery took around six days until Dr. Armstrong cleared me for discharge. Tubes extended from each side of my stomach, which allowed the urine to drain from the bladder and into diapers. For now, it seemed I was in the clear. The future was still bleak.

It would take years of recovery for my small body to heal and adjust. Dr. Armstrong would not consider the next surgery unless unexpected complications occurred. Fingers crossed for my parents and myself this little body's insides healed correctly. I had diapers like regular babies, but mom used cloth diapers to save money. My diapers stayed on years beyond expected. One of my first memories was those extra-large pins used to hold up diapers.

All the times, the large diaper pins snapped apart and poked into my sides. When I would run to find mom and show her, my diaper fell to my little feet. Diapers and the tubes from the side of my stomach had prevented me from being able to pee in our toilet. I waited to become potty trained at a normal age. I wanted to pee in the toilet as dad did. The most important part was I survived birth and the first surgery! The next step to learn and live, continue to survive, with the rare birth defect Eagle Barrett Syndrome (Triad Syndrome).

The Life Saver

Dr. Armstrong tried to cover each complicated detail, and what he suspected were the causes of my birth defect. Except, a kid never fully understands what a birth defect is, was, or a doctor's reasons for what causes it. The language is just far too difficult to understand. Life was getting more complicated, and childhood is confusing enough, add a urological disability, and surgeries to the stages of growth, and emotional issues. Here we go!

The first moment arrived for an unexpected shift to a new reality. After five years to heal, and my body's adjustment, Dr. Armstrong decided it was time for the second surgery. Another round! At five years, a child's mind has begun development through the stages of growth and development. The mind's ability to remember improves. The discovery over anticipation, collections of experiences, and memory storage all increase. My doctor's explanations started to make a little more sense as the years went by. These were times where most memories were able to come from my life's experience.

In Dr. Armstrong's office, he explained to us, "The recommended surgical procedure is to repair the urethra, reconnect it to the bladder, and repair as much of the weak abdominal muscles as possible."

He switched on a huge light board. The board with lights behind the large screen and slid single picture films into place. Images glowed through each picture. My thoughts soon clearly lost in the designs of the wood paneling walls and fake plastic plants. When he spoke, my mind wandered into thoughts about the pictures on the glossy x-ray films.

Dad leaned toward me, "Colby, those are pictures from inside your body. That is your stomach area, your kidney, and look how large your bladder is." It was neat to see the insides of my body. Scary, because of the shapes of my body's distorted organs, how it should have all fit together. More so, it was unreal because my imagination started to bloom. Not to mention, all the imagery from science fiction television shows seen during my youth.

"These are what normal kidneys and a bladder should look like," he slid between films and showed me the differences. I understood. Still, the least of a kid's concerns, because now I knew what the word surgery meant. Another surgery and my doctor explained: 'These are normal organs, of normal people, and here are the pictures of your abnormal insides, not normal!' The first stages of other people explained as normal, and you are not normal.

Dr. Armstrong's words and the X-ray films made it all clear, "The other phases of Colby's surgery are to correct all urinary tract issues and put in place all the remaining organ positions." Keep in mind, early and late seventies medical procedures lacked advanced technologies. Therefore, medical treatments and surgeries mostly hit and miss — not much of a choice to consider the options, except survival or dying.

My parents continued to answer my questions before the surgery took place. Mom said, "That is why your stomach looks swollen because Dr. Armstrong will try and repair your stomach muscles."

"Will my stomach ever be normal?" I thought it could be a possibility.

Mom and dad hugged me, "Oh, son, you are perfectly normal." One of the first understandings of normal and abnormal. Life and death, as dad put it, is perfectly normal. I felt otherwise being so young and scared.

"Never feel like you are not normal," mom teared up, "you are unique. Remember, all people are different." She cried.

Dad's reminder, "One of your two kidneys do not function. So, you have one kidney." To hear the reminder, I had one kidney when others had two. "In addition to your bladder being the shape of a football field." Sometimes his explanations were subtle because dad and I watched football on the couch. So, I understood the shape of the football field, but not for the bladder's shape.

"The bladder is round. Like a ball," Dr. Armstrong explained.

I remember dad's imagery, "Your other organs were all tangled together."

"Like spaghetti?" we laughed.

My dad and the doctor had already explained the testicle situation. Not like I knew what testicles were. I understood where they were, there were two, and these had to be in place and protected from direct blows. Not something a kid wants to know what happened at birth. Not much of choice at this point, so let's be honest.

"Will the surgery hurt me?"

Mom explained gently, "You will receive a special medicine that makes you sleep. You will not be awake to feel any pain." Well, I had to sense the relief in that explanation. In my imagination, I would be on the operation table and cut open while I was still awake, forced to watch all surgical horrors happen!

I understood the importance of the surgery if it meant I could survive. My future seemed brighter because of any possibilities for available surgery and allowed to live with a birth defect. Finally, I started to understand certain details of the explanations because of what occurred during my birth. But there was little comfort. I remained confused. The congenital disability restricted me from the chance to be a part of normal childhood activities.

I could watch other kids enjoy their fun, "Hey, look at us! We are the kids who get to run outside and play, Colby! You are not allowed to do any of this!"

Without second guessing, the doctor, or my parents' cautions, life moved forward with the belief I faced all severe injuries possible, even death. At first, of course, I listened. A child becomes frightened and terrified when adults look them in the eyes, "No sports, or riding bicycles. No jumping on trampolines, stay off and out of trees, those are off limits, because you could get hurt and require a dialysis machine, or need more surgeries, a kidney transplant, or die!" Die, being an effective outcome for their fear mongering. Effective.

I was also told, "Stay away from motorcycles and any dangerous activities! You have to understand how serious the situation is, Colby, and what it could mean if you are hurt or injured." I got it! (For the most part). Oh, and dad bought an old broken-down Kawasaki motorcycle he started to fix up! Taunt my hopes and dreams.

There were repeat adult warnings; these voices echoed inside my mind over and over mounting with frustrations. Not to mention the constant emotional fear that lingered from that point on. Added cautions, "No diving into swimming pools, stay off the back porch, always tell us when you plan on leaving the house," and other physical restrictions. Under doctor's orders, I would have to be careful to protect myself from any injury to the lower stomach area.

I grew up in a town called Lehi, Utah. Everyone knew everyone; everyone waved to each other. At that time, there were no sidewalks, traffic lights, hardly any stop signs, only the street signs. People stopped in the middle of the road or would cross paths inside local stores for a short chat. Mail delivery arrived each morning, and people had a good chat with their mailman. The town of mostly friendly people a small tight knit community where neighbors helped each other, whenever possible, that is where I grew up.

People tried their best to be civilized people, as neighbors were back in those days. I never remember going out to eat at fancy restaurants or for fast food. Home meals cooked over the stove, meats, veggies, and potatoes (my favorite because I could make the mountain shape in Close Encounters of the Third Kind). A family would eat around the kitchen table, talk. Kids would eat as quick as they could, then claim spots in front of the television, even back then. "Brush your teeth, get ready for bed, and get in your pajamas," grandma's Christmas presents from last year.

Except, I do remember one of the favorite local spots in town, like The Broadcaster. Imagine, the Jukebox, classic video games like Pac Man, Dig Dug, and Donkey Kong, and Galaga. A simple menu of hamburgers and fries, occasional fish, and chips. The good ol' fashion diner atmosphere. Well, it was also a place that drew the youth and teenage crowds. Adults were going on dates. There were groups of families and others who spent their special times together on the weekends. These were rare and awesome weekends. Going out to sit inside a restaurant was no regular opportunity and eating at a restaurant such as this one an occasion when adults handed us quarters to feed the video games!

Like, "what did we do to deserve this treat?"

There was another store in town, a locally owned small family business called Hutchings. The local town's hardware and appliance store. The place I would soon discover every chance to explore my hopes and dreams. A closer look at all the recent model airplanes, military planes, tanks or vehicles, battleships, aircraft carriers, and model rockets. It was a dream I believed to one day collect all the different plastic models and become destined to fly as an Air Force pilot or even train as an Astronaut and fly into space.

I had to come to terms and realize those were impossible dreams that would never come true because of my birth defect. My mind already led me to believe everyone around me, and all the people in town were made aware of my condition by my parents. Except, those people, and others, especially those considered close friends, remained unaware. People did not know about my condition like I thought and expected to know, as I recall.

See, I led myself to believe people already knew about my birth, and the disability, just because it existed. So, people knew. That is how a child's mind works sometimes. Maybe it was just the beliefs I had managed to develop on my own. The defense mechanisms as I heard adults repeat those words so many times before, over and over, "He had a birth defect." It was expected to be second hand news; people heard about or knew about me from someone else or that everyone just understood.

I lived for so long in false realities. I also planned never to bring it up, never discuss my birth, or let them in that part of my life. See, if they didn't know or never asked, then I would never have to talk about it, or explain the details to people. Avoid the conversation and avoid an uncomfortable situation. I tried my best to hide it. Don't talk if no one asks because I was just five six years old. Not comfortable with goofy adults who leaned over me.

After the five years of cloth diapers and antibiotic medicine, there were constant return trips to the doctor's office. At times, there were unexpected return trips to the American Fork hospital emergency room. Parents and a child can expect to have accidents with tubes extended from inside the stomach. We would leave the hospital, mom calmed my fears, "Sometimes those tubes get pulled out, hung up and wrapped around something when you play at home. Colby, remember to be careful." Once again, ripped from my side — a worrisome trip for mom to the hospital to have the tube or both tubes reinserted.

Surgical procedures in the 1970s seem scary when very few patients made full recoveries, and chances rarer to live a regular life. At my age, I guess it depended on Dr. Armstrong and the type of surgery. A child takes on much more emotional distress than considered. At least I was. 'But children are resilient!' Yeah, whatever you say. They are confused to understand how I should feel because it was a stage where you trust your parents with life and death decisions. It was moments of shock, overwhelming disbelief, fright, and frustration.

Through a child's eyes, poked, prodded, and stuck with needles for the blood work, early memories left as vague dream-like states. Other experiences, in passing, handed down by my parents. As the years progressed, I began to recall my hospital stay clearer than an early childhood memory cared to allow. The mind processed those positive and desired memories more accurately and revealed each recollection as I grew older. Regions of the mind have an instinctive ability for concealment of memory and protect us from the unwanted negative consequences of harmful experiences. A surgical process is painful, much too traumatic as one can imagine.

Live in each precious and happy moment because life becomes extraordinary when you allow yourself to be happy. At no point has there been preventative measures, or a cure discovered for Eagle-Barrett Syndrome. Neither the doctor nor anyone else be able to answer my questions about the cause for the congenital disorder. Too many possibilities. There was not a great outlook for survival, but I would soon discover being born with Eagle Barrett Syndrome was not only possible to live with, but I might also survive.

The Hospital

The recollection of mid-evil and barbaric medical equipment used during the procedures in my doctor's examinations had become terrifying and horrific experiences to recall. Since most of these instruments and devices seemed intentionally placed in the open, displayed on shelves, inside large glass containers of liquid disinfectant. All those large glass display containers with silver lids that looked like each one came from Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. At the moment, present technologies far surpass those of the 1970s and 1980s.

The experiences from personal memory, start to occur around the time of my second surgery, 1978. Of course, the conscious mind could have waited around a couple more years to hit the record button, wait until this part of life was the past. Nope, my mind decided this was the perfect place to hit the record button and start filming the visuals, recording the auditory sounds, intensifying the sensations at this precise moment in my life.

"Lights, camera, sound, action!" with, "No technical difficulties?" and "People, we are live!" The start of the big surgery because it would be the surgery of all my surgeries. It would be with all the added special effects, from that moment forward, to forever remain with me on my journey. Little gifts of memory wrapped in their separate boxes, so each one opened and enjoyed one at a time and since childhood, the surgery, hospital, examination, and lifespans of trauma. All with little bows on top.

The doctor had the family gathered in the office to explain, "The second surgery will repair the lower sections of Colby's stomach." My rare chance at a future for survival. I heard the explanations that were just like being inside his office during past visits. There was something different. Not sure why there is a memory lapse during this phase and with my recollections of the first processes of the next procedure. Boredom to listen, to listen to the doctor repeat the same words, once again, all the medical terms, I already had become familiar with the process. Not a hundred percent was sure.

Could this phase have all been a distraction to surprise and distract me? An attempt to catch me off guard and the doctor would go right in for the administration of the drugs. The nurses would then place me in a wheelchair and take me over to the surgery room. I cannot remember the part of being prepared for surgery or told when the surgery would happen. No anticipation, experience before given the drugs, which could have been for the best? The brain's natural defenses kicked in, saved me from the first of the experience.

All I can remember was to awaken in the hospital room, "Colby, can you hear me?" the nurse had spoken, but she wore a white mask.

Next to her was the tall man, "This is Dr. Armstrong, Colby ..."

None of his words made sense to me, "Let's take him up to recovery."

They rolled my hospital bed through narrow hallways. Flashes of bright lights passed overhead. Sights and echoes of visions and noises overwhelmed the sense's ability for auditory and visual adjustment for control over the situation, "Let go, relax, enjoy the ride." Was that my doctor? The voice sounded like Dr. Armstrong.

Confusion and distortions all around me, "Code 11-1... 7, Dr." the intercom announcement slowed down, "Ha... mmerson, to room..." then faded, echoed from the walls. Each doorway and sign hung from the wall, blurred images caused by the motion of the rolling bed. People stood inside the hospital rooms, sat in the chairs as I passed by, flashes, while I noticed other rooms were empty. As if to imagine the return trip to my recovery room was a voyage by sailboat, across open waters and to float the tranquil seas.

The motion stopped, and the wheel brakes pushed into place. Left in the company of unfamiliar faces, nurses, "where is the doctor?" the volume of my voice turned off?

A large glass bottle with liquid fluids hung from a metal pole. A woman came in where my mother and father appeared, spoke indistinct words, which I could not understand. The nurse rubbed a strange orange substance on the inside of my arm, "Are you ready for the slight poke?" whatever that meant.

The glass bottle hung from a metal pole, and a plastic tube stretched to my arm and connected to the end of a needle. Tape covered the needle just below my elbow, and it poked into my skin, "someone stuck a needle and left it inside my arm!"

My father walked over, beside me, to place his hand on my head, "Colby, how do you feel?" It was nice to see my parents with me.

Too young to understand the medication given after surgery and the side effects of morphine, "Tired and dizzy but okay. What's that?" my small finger pointed at the bottle and moved down to the needle.

"Those fluids need to run inside your body," everyone explained the exact reason for all these instruments, each of the patches, what would happen next, and which devices functioned for certain procedures. It might have been all the questions, "why is that there?" or "why do I need that?" and "why can't I go home yet?" Why? Why? Why?

For any child or a patient in scary situations, it gave me comfort to know the truth, explained, in detail. But to hear it from my parents, who I love, or Doctor Armstrong because I trusted him, even at an early age, could comfort me. I understood how important it was for me to go through all the stages and procedures. Plus, I knew, even at such an early age, how important it was and what it all meant if I was supposed to survive.

For me, after the doctor said the words, "the surgery is to help you survive," I knew there was the possibility he would be wrong, and that small chance I might be able to live a normal life. The doctor wanted to be wrong; of course, the doctor wanted me to survive. Beyond survival, it was becoming a reality to show people I could be more — not just a boy who survived the surgery. I wanted to be like all the rest of the children, and the adults who I watched from inside the house were normal. It would be a dream come true.

It was a question I always asked my doctor, "Will my stomach ever be normal?" because it started to sink in, not being like other children would cause me to stand out as different. I would become noticed as different. All I wanted to believe was I could be like other children. Fit in with the kids. At least have the idea or hope for the future, my stomach would look like it was supposed to look.

Of course, there was no shortage of syringes to administer a regular dosage of heavy-duty shots. A nurse would come in the room, place a piece of metal on my arm, "I am here to take your pulse," an uncomfortable silence not to know what to expect at that moment. "Everything is normal." She would walk out of the room. What is normal, I thought. Everyone considers the situation normal.

The nurses administered morphine after major surgery as a pain reliever, with estimated dosages, hardly any expectation of side effects. The first rounds of dosages injected and adjusted to the patient's responses to the medication. Sometimes, it felt like the morphine dosages kept coming. Anyone with experience of morphine knows this experience. Wow, the horror of images that are not real. At any age!

After the second surgery, a single hospital room was to be my living space for the entire time. There might have been another young boy in the room with me. However, with the side effects of the medication, it was hard to tell if the boy was real or imaginary. Difficult to tell, and hard to know, who or what was in the room with me. The illusions of another patient in the room, figments of hallucinations?

I never discovered the reality or truth of there being another boy in the hospital room with me. It has been a life-long process to translate all the fuzzy details. Through the long nights, a young boy was there. He seemed to be about my age and always sat up in his bed. It would be around the time he would sit upright, always the times I would wake up and, then, sit up in my bed. The kid never spoke a word, for hours, just mirrored my actions.

Until the first time, he pointed toward my bed, "There are Octopus tentacles behind your bed." Then, to have actual octopus tentacles appear from behind me, creep up from under the bed — the horror, frozen with fear, like a dream state.

I was terrified, and what child wouldn't be? A large monster with extremely large glistening fangs making a mysterious appearance. The beast towered over me, paralyzed with fear, and stuck in bed. I screamed. Regardless, not that I could have moved with all the tubes taped to my arms or the tubes from the sides of my stomach. This creature was larger than any Octopus I had ever watched on the PBS channel.

The other boy's reaction was laughter at my reaction to his joke — all at my expense. Never any words of encouragement or soothing reassurances, there was no beastie! To wake up the next morning and see no boy, or at least that I can recall. Then, a huge sigh of relief, the monster behind the bed had disappeared as well. At least, during the daytime hours. The constant dry thirst inside my mouth was a reminder of how bad I wanted a drink of water. But my doctor kept me on a water restriction. I had to remain in the bed, tied to an intravenous tube, and tubes inserted into the sides of my stomach.

The following morning Dr. Armstrong, mom, and dad were in the room, "I'm so thirsty, please, can I have some water?"

My parents looked at each other and then at Dr. Armstrong. I remained confused about why no one would reach for a plastic cup, go to the sink, and fill up one cup of water. It would be another lesson learned during life's trials, tribulations, and struggles. You cannot always have what you want, just because you think you need it, at that moment. There are certain things I wanted, the water, but would have turned out to be harmful to my recovery. I had no clue; I was a thirsty kid. Give me the water!

The doctor told me, "Colby, I am sorry, you will not be able to drink water until your stomach has healed from the surgery."

"Can I please have some water?" I pleaded.

My dad explained, "We know you are thirsty, but, for now, it will take time to heal. Water will make it harder for your insides to heal," and mom was not pleased to see me beg for something as simple as water.

A harsh and most stern warning, "No Water?!?!" this could be the end.

"No, Colby, water is something that will complicate the process of your body's ability to heal," Dr. Armstrong insisted.

I pleaded, "Please, can I just have some water," at times yelled out when the doctor was not in the hospital room, "one cup of water?"

The doctor took a washcloth and explained to dad how to wring out the cloth of all the water, "I am sorry, Gill. Colby's bladder, kidney, and testicles have just been through surgery." The look from the doctor was serious, "You must understand, as his father, it is what you must do for your son. The organs must heal to function normally, or the surgery process will fail. If Colby has any water, at all, it could damage his organs. I will have to repeat the surgeries." Dad was helpless.

At such an early age, no water meant I could also die of thirst even with the intravenous fluids (in my imagination). In my mind, people had to drink water to live, and without water, people died. The thought process never ensued: I almost died from being born with a birth defect! Never processed in an undeveloped mind, my body had undergone major surgery. Technically, and medically speaking, I was still not out of the woods. For me, the simple fact of not being able to drink water meant I might still die!

"Can I please have some water?"

"Not yet, son."

The mind requires, no, a child at this phase demands an answer to another question, if not now, "When can I have water?" when the next important answer to my question, and... wait for the water.

Nurses administered regular doses of morphine. The intravenous fluids continued to drip like clockwork. My mind produced all types of a variety of frightful hallucinations. The fact I had to remain in a hospital bed, to me, was the toughest part of the situation. If it had not been for the fact of confinment to the bed, I would rush straight for the sink and drank all the water my belly could hold! I would have the serious buddah's belly then!

Nurses would randomly appear, "Hello, Colby, it is time to empty your bottles," all who dealt with the tubes that led from my stomach to drain into the bottles.

Clanks clunk and clinks of glass bottles struck against the metal supports by accident, "Oops." It was difficult to keep the focus on what was going on. Moments later, the sounds became altered to bumps and bonks. Those glass bottles bounced against the porcelain bowl while their contents emptied into the toilet. Constant distractions of noises forever burned into my memory.

The doctor entered and used long, confusing phrases as he spoke. As his mouth motioned to speak words, it would move but rarely made sense. It was awkward for any child to make heads or tails of the situation. The obvious reason, a child inside the spooky hospital, at this age, did not understand medical terms, especially on morphine. Not able to distinguish the language or if the results were good or bad. I just wanted to hear, "Colby, you can now have water," or, "Colby, you can go home."

I can never recall the meals I ate for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. It could have been a liquid diet, or food easily broken down like soup? I do not remember. It might have been another result of the powerful effects of various drugs injected through the tubes. Powerful aftereffects of colossal hallucinations. Oh, wow, how is this going to turn out over the years, and later in life? These extreme visions would soon develop into an overactive imagination, for sure.

At night, lights turned down low, nurse's figures transformed to shadow figures with slow motion movements across the floor. In between their comings and goings, each of them had carried a type of tray, another medical device, emptied the pee bottles, 'clickity-clank.' The room reflected wavy shadow figures that lurked in every corner. Above my hospital bed were distinct patterns on square ceiling tiles.

It was at this point enormous hairy spiders began to squeeze through the cracks between ceiling tiles. Hundreds of long-legged, furry monstrous creatures approached, slowly, crept along with the ceiling panels and made their way to the walls. Strings of their webs allowed these beasts to repel from above me. My dad was in the room and understood something was wrong. He saw my panic and heard me scream, "Dad, spiders are coming from the ceiling!"

He understood there was something wrong with the medication. It was not normal for a patient to see horrible images. He demanded, "Nurse, call the doctor at once. My son is having a reaction to the medication and experiencing hallucinations. Something is wrong with the medication."

The nurse did not know what to do, looked confused, "We don't have further instruction or orders from the doctor."

"That is why you need to call Dr. Armstrong!" dad insisted.

She appeared less concerned, "We normally don't disturb him at this hour."

My father raised his voice, "Well, I have the number and will make the phone call for you."

Dad used the nearest phone, called, and pressed the choice for the number to reach the doctor, "Doctor Armstrong, I understand it is late, this is Gill. I am at the hospital. Colby is having severe hallucinations. He has explained spiders are coming from the ceiling. The on-duty nurse says she does not know what to do. It does not seem normal."

"I agree, the situation is not normal," the tone in his voice he was tired and in bed, but concerned.

"Well, seeing hallucinations of spiders is not a regular experience!"

The doctor reassured my father, "I understand your frustration, and the nurse should have known what to do. I will make the phone call, right away, and have everything straightened out."

"Thank you, doctor." Within minutes, the nurse arrived and explained she had just read over the chart and received the call from the doctor to lower the medication's dosage. The lower dosage would decrease the hallucinations and allowed me to fall asleep.

Nothing else mattered, except the desire to quench my thirst. Imagine the worst dryness inside your mouth. Flaked and cracked lips, chapped from the lack of moisture, "Here, Colby, let me put some Vaseline on your lips," mom tried to make the best out of the situation.

"Please, dad, can I just have one cup of water?" Only to be handed a dry washcloth.

Once again, the material placed inside my mouth, and it was nothing but damp cloth. Look at it from my parent's perspective. Heart wrenching requests, from a child who begs their parents, "Put more water on the washcloth," but to resist a child's plea. Imagine the persistence it takes not to add just a little more water? Give in and take a plastic cup. Fill it even half-way and pour a little liquid into your child's mouth.

The difficulty it must have been to look down at me and suffer from a lack of water, "Lynda, we could just give Colby a little more water on the washcloth" dad suggested to give me just a little water.

My mom insisted, "Even a dampened washcloth could cause harm. You know it would be easy to do, but it is also wrong because of what might happen."

"Please, just give me some water," I would beg, as mom stepped out of the room for a break.

"You know it will not be good for you, Colby," dad reconsidered at that moment as he looked around and down the hallway. "You promise not to say a single word to anyone?" My eyes lit up but understood the danger of what he was about to do.

"I promise, please, just a little," dad took the washcloth and rushed toward the sink.

After a soak, he only twisted the cloth halfway, "I am only going to give you just a little, not much."

The drips of water fell from the washcloth and touched my lips. Once inside my mouth, the moisture soaked in. Dad and I never told anyone, as far as I knew, until now. Such a relief, unlike any feeling imaginable. You should probabl listen to your doctor's advice. Still, I closed my eyes, dropped my head back on the pillow, comforted. I soon drifted off to a deep sleep.

Tests and Examinations

There was no recollection of time spent in the recovery room. All I can figure, far too long. Too many days and nights with strange recollections of people's unfamiliar faces. Strangers entered the room, "Are you feeling all right?" A nurse asked.

"I don't know," as if a child on medication would know what it meant to feel all right, or how these feelings were supposed to feel.

"Tomorrow, you will have some additional tests," no clue what to expect. It would not be comfortable.

"Okay," her hand took a syringe and injected fluid through the tube. Here we go again.

I learned to watch my doctor, and each of the nurse's actions, moves, and behaviors. Then I would wait and determine the results from the amount of pain or levels of discomfort, "This is a small amount of pain medication," all part of the normal mental observations.

If they were honest to me about what they were up to, "Tell me what that will do?" the observation was more to remember the result from their routine. I would know what to expect the next time around. I would remember if what each nurse said had turned out to be the actual results or a sugar-coated distraction from the pain. For example, pain medication was to relieve pain, not cause scary spiders to come from the ceiling or an octopus to crawl from behind the bed! Then, I would wake from a deep sleep, drenched in sweat.

The next day two nurses entered to prepare the bed, "We are going to wheel your bed through the main floor of the hospital and to the exam room." Finally, the chance to get out of that dreaded room even if it meant there was an examination involved.

One nurse asked, "Are you nervous, Colby?"

At least she said my name, "A little, I guess?" She wrapped tubes to the side of the bed.

Explained, "It's all right. You are going for x-rays. There will be a loud, noisy hum, and the X-ray table will turn your body up and to the side."

My mom asked, "Why does the x-ray table have to do this? It will be safe, right?"

"Yes, it is safe. Straps secure Colby to the x-ray table, while the process allows his body to drain the urine from the kidney to the bladder. The x-rays view the kidney and bladder functions are healing from the surgery" She attached the IV bottle to the bed. "Ready?"

"Are you ready, Colby?" mom walked with me to the main floor.

I felt safe with mom and shook my head, "Yes." Unsure and nervous as nurses wheeled me through the main hallway and to the elevator. Inside, the elevator felt like we fell to the ground.

Mom had placed her hand on my arm as we arrived inside the exam room, "Colby, your mom will wait outside."

My mom assured me, "You will be safe."

Inside the room, the nurses prepared me, covered under the heavy vest, "What is this vest for?" I had become extremely nervous, placed on a cold metal table, large black straps secured across my body.

"X-rays use wave-like rays, and the lead vest protects you."

"Like a protection shield?"

She smiled, "That's right, it is like a shield," as the other nurse carefully secured the straps to the table.

It went up and down, then upright for a long time. Then, the table lowered backwards. All the while, machines hummed and made whirly noises. There was a large metal framed camera angled above my stomach that took the pictures. I hoped the urine drained from my kidneys to the bladder. All this was necessary, or the surgery might not have worked. I would have to go through another surgery.

X-rays seemed like it went for hours. After a series of extensive X-rays, it took days for the films to process before the doctor could examine the results. I remember the X-rays had single slides, pulled from below the metal table. Over and over, inserted and pulled from below.

I never remembered my discharge from the hospital, or the drive home, still given a high dosage of that horrible pain medication. The most I recall was being home and the two continuous clinks of the bottles. Two tubes extended from the holes in the sides of my stomach and connected through the tops of each bottle. Scars of the experience still exist on my sides and the front of my stomach.

However, there was one issue, Dr, Armstrong explained, "If Colby can live to the age of 12 and survive after that, to the age of 16, he might be able to live a full life. That is if the surgery heals as planned, and he has no injuries or complications." Dr. Armstrong stressed, "It is necessary for Colby to live a safe and protective lifestyle, to preserve his health, and protect his stomach and back area. Most important is the protection of the stomach and kidney areas. If there is a chance Colby's hit, or struck and injured in the stomach or back areas, he could need a dialysis machine, or a kidney transplant, even die." To hear this was a pure terror at my age.

It might have also been a scare tactic to use on my mom and dad to make sure the fear of injury was in their minds because it would be all that my parents would have said, and repeated, for years to come. It was the first stage of childhood that altered and forever changed me. An extended hospital recovery, annual examinations, and repeated words of warnings from the doctor, any child would be terrified. I was bound to carry these memories throughout my lifetime.

The boy in the other bed who I thought teased me, the octopus and spiders that crawled from the ceiling, the thirst, hallucinations, and illusions from the morphine. Sweet innocence, a small child with no experience of the outside world, an empty vessel, now faced with the ultimate fear of the unknown. All these memories stand out. So does the care and kindness I received from the nurses and my surgeon, Doctor Joseph Armstrong. I recall the warmth of his voice and kindness in his eyes.

The way he looked at me, his eyes did not project the gaze of any type of pity or sadness for a patient. He had the skilled focus of a professional and was an understanding doctor who had the knowledge and training for his job. He was also a kind man, and the experience to understand what was necessary to mend this little patient's fragile body. A birth with my rare and debilitating defects, this doctor performed urological surgeries on my body's tiny organs, fixed the undescended parts, untwisted all the unnatural abnormal defects.

As the doctor had mentioned prior, "Colby must be careful with the weakened stomach muscles. You can expect constipation from the lack of muscles, and the effects of the morphine, trouble with sitting and standing. As he walks, there will be some difficulties. He might have pain when he coughs. Colby will need plenty of rest, time to heal, and recover."

"What should we look for, and how should we prepare for this?" dad asked.

"Have him take things slow. Watch over him and make sure to teach him how to move slow when he attempts to perform certain activities," Dr. Armstrong continued. "Lastly, his urinary tract is likely to cause difficulty when Colby tries to pee for the first time," and looked at me, "Colby, when you pee, there are times it is going to be painful. The Gantrisin helps prevent infection and limits problems in the urinary tract."

I thought, Thanks, I never urinated on my own for five years, not too much of an issue to pee for a while.

I always remember that chalky medicine, for years, Gantrisin. The doctor, mom, and dad had presented strict activity restrictions. The good and bad, extreme fears, and nightmares. All the extreme pain, emotional confusion, and time to suffer through what the surgery had caused. All I remember, the entire time, was the water restriction. From that moment forward, and after the hospital's water restriction, tell myself, "I will forever treasure the feeling of water pouring into my mouth," cooling my throat and filling my stomach, guzzle straight from the tap. Drink the water and as much as you can!

I started to think this is not fair; I am not going to allow anyone to tell me what, how, where, when, or why I was not able to do something. If other people could do it, I should be able to try it as well. It should not just be a congenital disability or a condition that made me different from other people. I wanted to carry with me the same desire, motivation, and intention to prove everyone wrong. Prove to everyone who would ever tell me or attempted to explain, "Colby, you are always going to be different," or "if you get hurt, something could happen, and cause damage to your stomach and kidneys. You could die!"

I understood the doctor, mom, and dad, even my family had the best intentions to protect me because it was out of love, support, and me being able to survive. I was not content with a brand, "The child who grew to a young boy and became the man who always limited his potential for goals and achievements. All because he had a congenital disability that made him think and act differently. So, Colby, he lived in fear for the rest of life." No, not me and, NOT EVER!!!

I was never comfortable being able to tell people in my life, "Hey, have I told you about being born with this birth defect and what it feels like?" Admittedly, it was simply not a comfortable conversation to bring up being so young. It is not so comfortable as an adult either. On the other hand, I also was forced into uncomfortable conversations I never fully understood because no one explained to me how to interact socially with others. Understand, if I didn't know what caused the rare syndrome, then how was I supposed to explain something I never fully understood, or without a doctor's explanations for what caused me to be born this way?

It was in those situations I felt cornered, in a way that forced me to explain my situation as after effects, "I was born with a birth defect, no one can explain what caused it, but this is what I have to face. I have no stomach muscles, one functioning kidney, and an irregular bladder." Never once as a young child, or in my youth, even as an adult, could I feel comfortable to bring up the conversation.

I never recalled being comfortable in any environment, around others, or with those people who had influenced me. I only found comfort with mom, dad, and my sisters, the doctor, or other family members. Mostly, because it was all the confusion and instilled fear people constantly conditioned me to feel. A fear to ask the questions no one had any answers to, regardless, because there were no answers to the questions. Questions like: "could I have died?" and, "Why did I not die, and it was me who survived?"

"When would I die?" yes, even as a child it was clear everyone dies, eventually. However, since recollections of those first memories, no one could tell me or give a straight answer. Still cannot give the medical reason for being born this way, without the cause, and no surgical correction. That is what scared me out of anything ever said to me, a constant reminder, "You could die before you grow up like everyone else grows up."

"Colby, there is a good chance you might not live to the age of 12 or 16!" Wow!

There was never a purpose to induce sympathy or pity from others. Pity and sympathy only drew attention to the way I was born. It's not intended as part of life to seek pity or sympathy. Adapt and prove people they are wrong. I never felt as though my life had an entitled value, a purpose, or what was the intended purpose for me to succeed. I always held to a belief there was a mistake in my birth because it was a defect. I felt there was someone or something that caused me to be this way.

It also shows what a child, young adults, and parents as a family can experience and overcome. Never assume mild to severe traumatic experiences during childhood or as an adult will not create long lasting impacts and have a major influence over a person's mind. Painful experiences and trauma create an emotional impact at any point in life. The traumatic impacts and emotional effects can last throughout a lifespan, even into adulthood. It would have lasting types of various emotional and mental effects that I did not come to terms with, at no point, until later in life.

It physically and emotionally hurts to experience any painful trauma and confusion at such an early age and as adults. The healing would happen but only with time and allow me to grow into a young adult. However, the process takes work and time to heal. Memories imprint, and recollections remain through flashbacks. All I have learned is how to formulate strategies for positive methods of coping and mindfulness to focus on the positive, not ruminate in a negative stasis. To grow into an adult in a fast-paced life, and survive, in this vast and unforgiving world we live in, is a challenge. Imagine what experiences, challenges, and obstacles are in store.
Childhood

It was not all awkward moments during my youthful days. I developed views of expectations, hopes and dreams, and imagination, which happened during the moments of how people and life affected me. My family and sisters never treated me different, other than protecting me from potential injury and harm. It had been how other children and adults started to treat me differently, passing strange looks. I started to watch other's reactions both as individuals and in groups, listening for their comments.

Words had a profound effect on me. Mostly, people had known about my surgery or noticed two bottles with the tubes going under the sides of my shirt. Normal reactions from people would be to ask my dad questions, "What happened to your son?" or, "How is your son?" Then, once people were comfortable, it became intrusive, "Why does he need those tubes and bottles?"

People spoke as though I could not understand, "Hello, I hear your words and understand what you said."

"Oh, it must be so difficult for him?" and, "We just feel so terrible." I felt what these people said.

I get it. People's outlooks come from their views, perceptions, and when everyone said it must be terrible, or they felt like it must be difficult, thank you for your concern and kind intentions. However, there are right and wrong ways to say it or not say it at all! The wrong thing was to use, "it must be difficult," and "They felt terrible." Yeah, completely uncomfortable, awkward, for how terrible you must feel. It was difficult to experience the pain of surgery and examinations, all of it terrifying and traumatic. Glad, you felt terrible because it continues to be difficult.

It seemed like an attempt to relate their concern, in their hopes and best wishes for my family and me. Except, when they spoke, and the person they talked about was right there. The least they could do was talk to me. You know, like there was neglect for me not being able to understand what happened to me. It felt necessary to follow along as I learned and adapted to human behavior, experiences, and reactions.

Certain adults had no idea of the personal experience I went through. Likewise, I did not know them or their experiences. They sure wanted to know all about me, personally. I was not comfortable or ready for people or the whole town to know my situation. Now that was have talked about me, can we talk about your personal life and your childhood? What personal tragedies and traumas are you going through? I know it was not the intention, or what had meant to come out in conversation, except that is my confusion of being a child.

When people continued to address me, it was all warnings, "Be careful and listen to your parents, Colby."

"Be a good boy," and "take care of yourself, little man," groups would say.

It made sense people would say the obvious or tell kids how to act and live because of all the mistakes we make in our younger years. I get it! I understand all the frustrations and annoyance kids must experience. Accidents will always happen. However, no one understood it was me that felt like I was born with the mistake and other, serious mistakes were in my dreaded future.

You know, not much positive reinforcement, "Get out there and do the best you can. You made it this far, Colby! We are so proud of you!" I knew, even at an early age, the dangers and scary situations children faced. To know that does not mean it is not going to keep a child or teenager from doing something stupid, come on! I mean, the doctor had scared me with all those warnings and statements, "You might not live to the age of 12 or make it to the age of 16."

Any choice made in life can lead to injury and potential death. To have a doctor flat out say the words, "You could die before the age of 16," stuck with me and was a major cause for concern. Try and block it out of my mind. So, I started to learn about distraction, become the rebel and trickster. Any way to avoid the thought about how or if I would make it to my 16th birthday. Not to mention the huge bummer, the age I was supposed to get a driver's license.

One of my awesome memories was the day dad surprised us and brought home a white puppy, "Wow, is this ours?"

"Yes," dad placed the little dog on the floor, "mom and I talked about a family dog," an energetic, bouncy furball, "and I picked out this breed of dog. It is an Eskimo Spitz."

"A Spitz?" here goes my imagination.

"We can keep him, but you all have to take care of him the best you can."

"Eskimo Spitz?"

"Colby, that is a species of dog."

"Let's name him, Fluffy!" sister already had a name picked out. An obvious name kids pick out. Let's face it; the dog was a furball. If the name fits?

"I like that name, Fluffy," the ball of fur licked our faces, "but it has stinky breath."

Mom and dad laughed, "People call that puppy breath. Puppies have stinky breath when they are young."

We all burst with joy, happiness, and wonder as this little puffy white dog darted from one side of the room to the other, "Can we keep him in the house?"

"Dogs are outside animals. Fluffy will have to stay in the backyard," we were not happy our new pet had to be outside, vulnerable, in the chilly weather and alone.

"What if someone steals him?"

"Or what if he runs away?" sister added.

"He will be safe. We can keep a close eye on him," dad and mom's reassurances were enough. Besides, we had a puppy dog! So, fluffy was our new family pet. He would play with us in the backyard and on the driveway.

One time, my father heard me through the screen door, while on the back porch, "Fluffy, spit."

Dad slid open the screen, "Colby, did Fluffy eat something? Is he choking on something?"

"Nope, I just want to see Fluffy spit."

My dad was curious, "Why do you think that?"

"Fluffy is an Eskimo Spitz so that he can spit, huh?" I looked back down in the yard. "Spit Fluffy, spit!" Dad burst into laughter.

"No, Colby, Fluffy can't spit. He is called an Eskimo Spitz." Like anyone would call a dog that, if it couldn't spit. At least, in my mind. Still, there was a day I believed Fluffy would prove everyone wrong and spit!

It was years later; I was out with Fluffy on the driveway when his behavior was different, acting strange. Yelped, and snapped at my hands. Not normal to me. I ran inside, "Dad, something is wrong with Fluffy."

"What's going on?"

I explained, "Fluffy started to yelp and tried to bite me."

"Stay inside, and I will take a look." Dad walked from the side door. My sister and I watched at the top of the stairs and waited for dad to return.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Something's wrong with Fluffy. Dad is going to look at him and told me to stay inside," we continued to wait.

When the door opened, Dad's has a concerned look, enough to know something was wrong, "I will take him to see the doctor."

"Dogs have doctors?"

Dad had to explain, "Animals have doctors called vets. Vets are animal doctors."

"Is Fluffy okay?" if Fluffy had to go to the doctor, I figured it had to be serious. Still, I made the connection between my doctor's ability to help me survive, were that another doctor would be able to do the same for Fluffy.

"I am not sure," dad took the leash. We watched from the front window as the truck rumbled out of the driveway.

Dad returned with sad news, "The doctor said that Fluffy was sick with a head tumor. So, he would not have long to live," doing his best to explain the details of a tumor.

"Will Fluffy be okay?" I asked.

"The vet gave Fluffy a shot so he would fall asleep and die peacefully," the loss was tough. There was no other way to put it.

"Fluffy was not hurt?"

"The vet said there was no pain," it was hard to imagine little Fluffy was gone.

Months had gone by since our family pet died. A cartoon came on the television, 'Snoopy Come Home.' If there ever a wrong moment for a kid to watch a cartoon, it was this one. The rest of my family ate dinner at our dining room table, "Can you hear that?" mom asked.

Dad listened, "I can hear noises from the front room."

Between a muffle of sniffles and sobs, mom asked, "Is it Colby?" as they walked into the front room and found me hovered in front of the television set.

Tears streamed from my cheeks, "What's the matter, son?" dad asked.

"Snoopy packed up all his stuff and left home. Snoopy ran away from home," I was in tears, confused why Snoopy had left home.

"Oh, son," dad sat next to me, "in the cartoon Snoopy goes on an adventure." explained, "You will have to watch the whole show and see the happy ending."  
"But...," my hands wiped away tears, "...is Snoopy okay?"

"Snoopy will be okay," everyone sat around me, "let's all watch it, together, until the ending." Everyone watched the cartoon journey of Snoopy make it home, and his happy ending. I wished all children could have a happy end like the Snoopy cartoon.

I always spent time around dad when he was home on weekends. It felt like his stunt work and times interested as an actor kept him away for days. I would sit on the cement driveway and pretend to help fix our Ford pickup. A neat experience to place the different tools in his greasy hands, "Could you give me the crescent wrench?" He explained the best way possible about the names of each tool and how each of them worked. Also, he taught me about knives, guns, rifles, and mountain men when he would come home from rendezvous. Where all mountain men would gather to camp, cook, and take part in awesome games like knife and axe throwing contests.

I watched mom and dad, sisters, other people to learn to adapt and fit in, how to belong. Of course, mom and dad were stern when it came down to it, "No, stay out of that."

"Don't touch that! Get out of the toilet and leave the toilet paper alone!" and, "I will feed you in a minute. We have to allow the food to cook."

I would be impatient and get a snappy response, "Just let me finish doing this."

I would always ask, "Mom, why do you have to wake me up at five in the morning?" as she walked in the room, whistling the tune for 'rise and shine.'

The answer, "To get you in the bath, brush your teeth, and dress for your doctor's appointment." Mom always had that funny quirk that woke me up in the mornings with a different type of whistle.

"I need to sleep!" I never understood the reasons we had to leave early for doctor appointments. We lived in an area with harsh Rocky Mountain snow or rainy weather, so that long drive might have also included the time spent in the waiting room.

"We want pancakes?" kids responded at five in the morning.

"No, we have to leave soon. Get some spoons, and I will get the cereal."

As kids, we would get into serious arguments. Then, it continued, "Put that down." and "Don't fight over those toys. Why are you scratching each other?" Dad and mom would look out the windows with distant stares into the clear blue yonder. I always wondered what made them stare like that.

You might be aware children appear innocent. On the contrary, children have learned and are always contemplate a plan. Think, plot, and at times, "What is the best excuse," or "The best response to come up with and get out of something?" Being a child is like living in the shadow of chores, cleaning up after your mess, and completely subject to dictator rules.

"I don't need to put away my toys," thinking, it was clear to me, I will only get them out tomorrow.

The same rule applied, "Why do we need to arrange the dishes inside the conbinets?" and why do I have to do this, or why do I have to do that?

My parents had one answer that overruled all these questions, "Because! That's why!" I had no means to argue back. My parents had a quick response to every question during childhood since there is no logical way to explain life's ways to a child.

Unfortunately, because there are no instruction manuals, or 'being a child for dummies,' the word "Why?" was always the first question asked.

"Mom, why do I have to start school?"

She revealed the simple truth, "All kids go to school," hmm, but I wasn't like all the other kids. I would still have to prepare myself for the thought of school.

"Why?"

"Because that's why." No reply to that response.

My dad said, "You need to learn how to read and write, do the math, and communicate with other people."

"I don't feel comfortable around strange people."

Mom said, "I know it's scary to think about school and change. Look at how much you went through in the hospital. Now that is bravery!" Mom always had a way of making me feel confident. But it didn't change the fact I would be around other kids.

The normal kids were not going to be the same as me. Those kids would not understand me or my birth defect. It was that I didn't want to spend hours around strange kids, only to explain the abnormalities of my birth defect. I didn't want to get to know normal kids. Besides, would they feel comfortable with someone who asked about their privacy, their bodies, and the same questions asked about their personal life?

My father was more interested in the point of going to school, "We can only teach you so much about history, math, science, and how to learn how to live in a world where you can work."

"Not if I am going to die."

The silence caught them both defenseless, "Oh, honey," I could sense the reality, "you cannot think that way."

"Is that what you think?" Dad made a face. The serious discussion face.

"Yes," every morning I wake up, the entire day, ever since the doctor uttered the words, and until the moment I close my eyes to go to bed at night.

"See, Colby is not thinking about a job anytime soon," it was a sense of relief, but there was still the fact school would start soon, not work or a job. I wanted to work, and I wanted to be a fighter pilot, a soldier, or a police officer, a fireman — the young child's imagination. I believed I would be able to do whatever any other person could and should be able to do.

My parents cared for me, chose to sacrifice their time to raise me, and help me heal from childhood surgery and survive a rare congenital disability. My parents saved my life with trips to the hospital and took me to all the appointments for my treatments, the medications, and medical costs. Parents earn a living from working, support themselves and their family, from what I learned. All that work and to spend a hard-earned paycheck on food, shelter, and decent birthdays and Christmases every year. We had a roof over our heads to keep us warm, food, and beds.

Before the doctor's approval cleared me for fun activities, I watched other kids through our front windows. Kids who walked past the front yard screamed, and their laughs echoed against windowpanes. My thoughts had plenty of time to catch up on wild childhood imagination and mental creativity. How it would feel to be free of confinement, walk and play outside, without these glass bottles. I had cabin fever.

I took rides with dad in his Ford and listened to the songs play on the radio, stop at the gas stations, and auto parts store. These were great times. I never heard curse words on the radio or television. At places we stopped, a person poked their head inside the passenger side window and freaked me out, "Hey, little man. How are things going in there?"

There were strangers here and there who knew my dad. Others who smelled like gasoline, others like stale tobacco smoke. Professional types dressed in suits and ties. Their facial expressions were different, crooked tooth smiles, those with the serious pitiful looks, wrinkly faces, and spotty marks. Older adult's smell and those men who doused their faces with Aqua Velva. A variety of strangers who looked inside the truck to take a quick look at the boy with the bottles.

I would get to watch the strangers walk in and out of the stores. I heard them say all kinds of curse words, far too inappropriate for me to repeat. Somehow, I got the idea it would be fine for me to say as well. They would talk like that, "Shit, damn, asshole, and, worst of all... fuck and fucker." Those words were completely unacceptable. Yeah, you guessed it, I did get my mouth washed out with soap!

I learned to curse, the meanings of different curse words, and when to say them, but only around my trusted friends. If I cursed in public, or around my friend's parents and my parents heard about it, another mouth full of soap. Zest, once again. Zestfully clean! That's a fact because my family believed in the faith of the Mormon church community. I was raised in an indoctrinated Mormon family. Utah, Mormon, life. Evolve and adapt and sit in Sunday church, ugh. Time seemed to stand still. I would dart for my home at the first chance to watch the best Sunday cartoons.

The day arrived, "Colby, today is your doctor's appointment."

"Oh, great," that waiting room, more x-rays, bloodwork, and the drive to Provo.

Mom included good news, "Time for the tubes in your stomach to be removed." Zoom, a quick car ride. The tug, painless pull, and out with the tubes. All said and done, no pain or complications. Before I could play, or spend any time outside on my own, the tubes and bottles prevented any fun outdoor activity. The Price is Right, Family Feud, The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, CHiPs, News, all adult shows. For me, there were new possibilities and adventures ahead. Here comes trouble!

However, I had never used a toilet by myself, so the doctor gave my dad advice to teach me how to pee, "Gill, fill up the tub with warm bath water and have Colby sit inside."

"What if that doesn't work?" dad asked. A scary moment because if I couldn't pee, another surgery.

It was the waiting game to hear from the doctor, "You are now going to pee on your own and stop using the tubes draining into the bottles. It probably means everything is functioning, all is well, and you can start school."

Dad explained, "The doctor told me you are going to have some pain, at first, because you have never used thar part of the body. It will take time to pee on your own." I spent five and a half years of my life with tubes through my stomach and attached to those 'jolly' bottles. Concentrate over the thought of pain.

Terrible fear from the thought of not be able to pee! Would my insides explode? Then, back to the surgery and that hospital room, "Doctors will have to insert the tubes back into your sides so your bladder can drain the urine." Fear and terror overwhelmed me. I wanted to pee, show my father, and doctor the surgeries worked. Mostly, I wanted to prove what it meant to be a brave and strong boy. It never worked, so my father made another call to the doctor.

Dr. Armstrong explained over the phone, "Gill, take a mason jar and write Colby's name on the side of the mason jar."

"That could work?" dad was surprised.

"If Colby thinks he has his special place to pee, it might work, psychologically. Try it and let me know," the doctor hung up.

Dad found a mason jar, explained in a special tone, "Son, this is a special jar, your special jar," it sounded like a secret, "your name is on the jar. But guess what?"

"What?" I looked.

"No one else can use this jar, only you. Only you can pee in the Mason jar." Well, it must have been the trick. The secret magic element, because the Mason jar experiment worked.

My father made another phone call to Dr. Armstrong, "Great news, Colby is peeing in the mason jar! All on his own!" it was clear in the sound of my dad's voice, he was excited.

"That is great news, Gill."

"Doctor, his urine stream looks and sounds stronger than mine!"

"Well, Gill, I do have one concern," the doctor replied as dad went silent, "that I might have to schedule an exam to check your bladder and urine stream," they laughed.

"No, thanks, Dr. Armstrong. I will get back to you on that one. Thank you for all your help."

"Call me if there are any concerns. Thanks, Gill."

"Thanks, doctor," once dad was off the phone, I topped off the mason jar and poured the pee into the toilet.

"Wow, you must have had to pee?" a huge smile across my face.

"My belly doesn't hurt anymore."

Dad laughed, "I'll bet it doesn't hurt after all that came out?"

It did not take long before I was out to push the envelope to see what types of activities I could do and test boundaries. The types of mischief I could cause for a little fun.

New Adventures

There was finally a sense of relief. The achievement to be away from pain only exams and treatments, no more being in the hospital. A sense of pressure felt lifted, with a little bit of comfort, or as much a child could expect. At least it appeared so, for the time being. Plus, we had welcomed another baby girl to the family. That made three kids, two girls, and one boy. I was no longer the youngest. We would celebrate holidays, birthdays, go to family parties, attend family reunions, and have dinners together. My favorite time of the year, Christmas. A happy family.

Aside from play time with my increasing toy collection and being in front of the old television set to watch cartoons, the scary thoughts of dying started to fade away. As a small child, the world was too large for me to realize or care to understand. Simple times at home was where we all felt comfort and joy. Especially during Christmas, because it was that special time of the year.

We would hear mom or dad announce, "Kids, go down in the basement and get out the boxes of Christmas decorations."

Dad added, "And be careful!"

The glow and nostalgia returned every year. Dad would soon be cautiously maneuvering the truck in the driveway with a fresh cut tree, "Kids, stay out of the way of the truck backing into the driveway!" Mom always concerned about us, ran over for a good reason.

My sisters felt the confusion at our attempts to pull apart complex strings of tangled tree lights, "Be careful," mom warned, "don't break any of the bulbs!"

We unpacked all tree ornaments, each prickly tinsel ropes, and opened packages of separate strands of staticky tinsels. The single strands of tinsel were the moments we made silver wigs and turn to freak-a-zoids, "Chase me!"

Three kids bolted through the house, "I'll get you!" all with tinsel wigs.

"Try not to make a mess!" mom called out.

We started to hang ornaments and clean up the mess of tinsel, lost in our little worlds. Somehow, the tree managed to get decorated. Presents all wrapped and placed under the tree, and none of us would be able to sleep Christmas Eve. Christmas day, a fresh layer of snow coated the neighborhood, trees, and roads. The front room windows frosted over. Come morning, and we were all woken up to unwrap our gifts. Mom and dad would watch from the couch, smiles on their faces.

"Wow, look what Santa brought you!" Dad acted surprised with his polaroid camera flashing. Always quick to snap pictures. After we had opened presents, it was time to bundle us up and head out in the front yard at the chance to build the biggest snowman on the block! Snowball fight!

"Who wants to put pieces of coal for the mouth, eyes, and a carrot for the nose?" We took turns to put each piece of the snowman's face in place. Dad lifted us in place.

Every year, I guess, it seems like when you are young the snowstorms always appeared larger than life. On the other hand, being that young, the winter storms only left a half foot of fresh snow. It was like the snow buried the cars, and there was no chance of getting anywhere. Nobody wanted to go out in the cold and shovel, clean off the cars, and all stores closed on Christmas. All these moments, imprints of special times in my life.

It's hard to determine an exact date in life when social interactions with other neighborhood kids started. My doctor made it sound like the examinations went well, "Colby, your blood work, and urine analysis, test results, all turn out to be better than expected."

My parents had finally experienced another sense of relief, "Dr. Armstrong, we want to thank you for all that you have done for our son, Colby." For us, this good bit of news sounded like no more surgeries, and no addition stays in the hospital. Horrific thoughts about those dialysis machines, or the chance I might die, all faded away.

"Colby, remember to be careful, protect your stomach area. The last thing any of us want is to see you back in the hospital." I would not argue with him.

I understood our belief in the power of prayer and their ideologies of how the Lord watches over us. Every Sunday meant church. The church's organized religious teachings never really stuck with me or held an interest. It was a religion, where people would stand up, "I know the church is the one true church, and the prophet is the true prophet of God, and Jesus is my lord and savior," please understand people have their beliefs, feel what is true for them, but it happened to be how the words are spoke and repeated. Like memorization, or just their children made to memorize words and look at the proud reaction from the parents in the congregation.

I was six and not ready to understand religion, divine purpose, and the bible at 'yea' such an early age. Probably because, as a young child, those ideas are far too complex to understand all the medical terminology, and life, and death. Mostly, the Sunday church and meetings confused me. Being too tired and hungry, how could I focus on scriptures and religion with a growly belly? I was also in the stages of told to follow all the rules or become disciplined and to constantly hear about sin and consequence to extreme levels of guilt.

All the different celestial kingdoms, if you are this type of person you face judgement, only then can this type of person make it into heaven should they abide by the doctrines. If not, think bad thoughts, break the rules, and become in trouble with the Lord; it meant sinners go to hell! God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and the Devil! Santa's 'good and bad' list was enough guilt and always made to feel bad about wanting to live life without thinking about, "Will I go to hell for this?" You know, make your own choice, live your path, and make good decisions. Be a good person.

As a regular family, we had Kool-Aid, made meat slices, or PB&J, sandwiches with blocks of that welfare cheese. I loved grilled cheese sandwiches and hot dogs or macaroni cheese and hot dogs (you might find that gross). As a kid and your family is not financially well off: you make do with what you have. My favorite was mom's homemade potpies! Mostly, we would sit around the kitchen table and have homemade meals like meatloaf, fried potatoes, beans, and cornbread.

It was a time, as kids, we would gather all the glass bottles we could and take them to the store. Cash in and, then, use the deposit money to buy penny candies. All our candy dreams came true in brown paper bags. Like Willie Wonka, all for a mere .25 cents. A single bag full of a large scoop of bulk candy.

Another hard part at this age was to learn about the ways boys and girls started to look at me and suddenly treated me differently. Most were nice kids, while others were plain mean with their rude comments when their parents or the adults were not around.

Older boys took it to a whole new level. These were the kids who would go out of their way to push me around, shove me to the ground. Such as when I chose to walk home from church or walk to a friend's house alone. Being on a sidewalk, get a good bump from a shoulder and knock me onto the gravel, or pushed onto someone's front yard. If I talked to my sister about it, she would be upset, "Those boys are just showoffs around their friends." It wasn't long when I heard my sister beat up a boy for what she heard he had done to me.

I heard mom and dad talk from the kitchen, "She was only protecting her younger brother."

"She could get in more trouble when she hits another kid," my father said, "but when we are not around, what will happen when Colby is in school?"

"Honey, we will probably have to talk with other parents, the school principal, and Colby and his sister's teachers."

I knew what it meant when my parents spoke in serious voices: more time in the school office. People were bound to find out about my birth defect. The adults and children would sit in a room, and talk things out, explain what happened. What could happen to, "The boy with the birth defect." You know all the "consequences and what to expect in the future?" and, "it always needed to place a focus on Colby's protection." Yeah, real uncomfortable.

Single out the kids who are different, and they continue to feel awkward, guilty, uncomfortable. These kids placed an extra amount of focus inside their already confused minds to which made these bullies and families even more upset. Make my social phobia and stages of anxiety more extreme than it needed to be. I didn't mind at the time, at least I led people to believe that because it confused me way too much even to try and understand mean people. Life was already far too complicated.

So, I let myself become distracted and lost in my daydreams. Created thoughts to take my mind off the stressful pressures of childhood and birth defect. Anyway, my mind was usually on other things. Most adults, families, and kids would never understand the surgeries, examinations, doctor office visits, and what I went through in the hospital and with the horrific hallucinations. Then again, people could understand what it was like going through a constant confusion to wonder about my body issues.

To look around the room at older people, who are talking about you, when you are in the same room. A huge let down, "Hi, I am also here in the room. Remember me, the kid you are all talking about?" but I was just a boy.

What input could allow them to consider my feelings? I could not speak with these adults. No one listened. There was no place to direct my frustration, anger, the boiling up inside about how I felt. At this time in life, the era, boys never expressed confusion about emotion, holy cow if you ever cried, "Why are you crying?" that was it!

"What's the matter, little cry baby?"

"Oh yeah, cry like a little merry."

"Grow up and act like an adult!"

Besides, if I cried or showed any emotion, the room would go silent. All attention would shift in my direction. It felt like slow motion, and my lips glued together. I also thought about the other kid's lives at home, not so great. Bet those kids, and young teens got the holy spirit beat out of them. Remember, this was the late 1970s and early 80s, and kid's parents would also have all sorts of issues, just as bad, extreme, and confused as the kids. So, what good would it do to cry or show emotion, regardless? Just get an ass whoopin' or the belt.

What is it like in their home and with their families?

The adult talks came and went. I figured, most people who lived in the small town of Lehi, the neighbors, most parents would tell their kids. The adults would have discussions with other adults and children. Soon, everybody would know about me and my birth defect. Colby, "the special boy," and, "born strange." So, why did it matter to me?

I was just a kid set on just that and doing simple "kid stuff." Not being worried about death and dying at such an early age. People say, "life was considered simpler, easy going, and less complicated, 'back in my day,'" or so people led others to believe. I say that is, "a load of horse crap." My focus, to get all the time in I could with my friends before the start of my first school year.

The doctor said at my last appointment, "everything looks completely healed." Which in his words meant more than he expected? For me, my doctor was able to perform those surgeries, keep the infections away, and my only kidney and bladder worked better than planned. It was still scary to know there was only one kidney in my body.

Cleared for school and more time to play on my own, "Mom, be back at sunset!"

"We are you going to be?" mom would either be in a room cleaning or cooking in the kitchen.

"I will be over at a friend's," so and so, "at his house."

My mom would always stop what she was doing, "Whose house and will their mom and dad be home?"

I had learned, often, I knew better, to say another friend's name, "Matt's house," rather than the house where I would be. Another name was more respectable in mom's mind, from memories of prior reactions, to say the friend's name and see her reactions.

I had no clue if the parents would be home, but the answer, "Yes, his mom and dad will be home."

Mom knew and caught on, "Be home before 6 p.m., or before the sun goes down, for dinner!"

"Sure thing," out the door!

When I would be over at one friend's house, we would leave to get another friend and so on and so on. Of course, as kids, we thought to be somehow smarter than our parents. "Don't get your clothes dirty." You know, in our little minds, we tried to outsmart our parents. At least long enough to get through half of our mishaps.

"All right, mom," important to arrive early with our group of friends.

So, mom would say, "If you go to another house, call me before you leave." She wanted to know who I was always around and where. No matter when, where, or who, and what time, "If you plan to go somewhere, other than a friend's house like the park, or fields, or the school playground, call me."

My shoulders drooped, "Ah, mom."

"If their parents are not at home, you come straight back. Do you understand?"

I sighed. Ready to break out the door, "Yes, mom!" zoom!

"All right, be careful," already out the screen door, she yelled from the front porch, "and remember to call!" I was down the sidewalk by the time her voice reached me.

"I know!"

The important part of our adventures was transportation. Usually, it was either a long walk or try and gather enough bikes like the BMXs or a huffy and Schwinn bikes. My friend's older brothers had real nice bikes. Not me, I had two sisters. My bike was all scrappy and generic parts, assembled around a spray-painted, primer colored frame. Scavenged bits and pieces bolted together, along with mismatched rims and tires. The only requirement that our bikes got us from point A to point B and back to point A. Back to home base.

There were endless games of capture the flag. Hide and seek throughout the neighborhood, or rotten apple and tomato fights. Oh wow! Bad idea.

Our next adventure, treasure hunts. All of us excited, "Did you see the new Indiana Jones movie?" or "Star Wars?" and "Top Gun?"

"No, not yet, but I saw Goonies and Indiana Jones!" Indiana Jones was a reason I began treasure hunt adventures and wanted to find the long-lost gold! Once we saw the theatre movie, dad even bought me a whip. I could never take a whip out of the house, for obvious reasons.

The school year was about to start, and we were knee deep in thick mud. Imagine our hopes to fill those big pools of water, retrieve all the largest gold nuggets! That was the treasure hunt, at least in our minds, that we were about to strike it rich. Except, I was wearing the first year's school clothes, and there was no gold. Our next plans, tunnel into various cliff sides or deep into the ground. We even planned a week-long adventure to tunnel under the train tracks. The goal was to dig through and make it to the other side. Too much for our little hands to dig out but would have been an awesome time. So much fun!

The start of the first school year was approaching, and we dressed in the clothes our parents bought us for the coming school year. There was no reason to wear those clothes outside of the classroom. Especially, not when we dug for gold or into deep tunnels, and through the depths of the cave, under the train tracks.

Of course, at the end of the adventure, "Uh oh!"

"What?" I would ask.

"Our parents bought us these clothes for school."

"This is going to be difficult to explain."

Each of us faced a harsh reality, "We are grounded, for sure!" Try and tell that to kids who are out to strike it rich. We all knew it, though, there was big trouble. All of us were about to come home covered in mud, dirt, dust, and the forbidden rips and holes in our first-year school clothes.

"Guess we better go home," We looked at each other's clothes.

After a quiet walk to each of our homes, we all said our goodbyes. Me, left with dusted jeans and mud clumps on my new shoes. I was the last of my friends to arrive home.

"Oh wow!" before going to the front door, I would look at my dirt covered jeans.

Dad caught me, "What have you done to your new school clothes?"

"Whoa," I would think. As kids always think. Say the wrong thing: Take it easy, or, can't the washing machine make them clean? Get a butt whooping!

Wrong response for a parent who has spent hard earned money on new clothes. However, I knew the answer to that question, "You're grounded!"

"Aw, for how long?"

"For the whole weekend," his face red, "you will stay home, and you are not allowed to leave the house or the yard!"

Do this. If you get in trouble, stay under the radar, keep on the down low and get ready for school Monday morning. After school, go to my room. Face the punishment. Behave and act a certain way, eat the vegetables, help do the dishes and clean up, follow all the other rules. All I wanted to be was an adult. Life looked so much easier for adults. Do what you want, whenever, and go places. Wear your choice of clothes. Uh, Right!

The Patient

The car ride to an annual doctor's appointment was always a major bummer. The anticipation felt during the long drive from Lehi to Provo, always seemed like it took forever. It was only 20 miles, a thirty-minute drive. However, the problem was the waiting room, anticipation, and horror of the examination. Aren't waiting rooms the worst? Don't get me wrong; it would be nice to know my inside parts would function, but it was the wait.

Our old family car rolled along the road, "How long do I have to keep going to the doctor?" clunk, clunk, clunk. The shocks rocked over potholes.

Mom was not in the best mood, "Forever...," she looked at the shock on my face, "kidding! Until Dr. Armstrong says, everything is all right."

"So, not any time soon?" Likely, the way things were going, it would be forever. I added, "As long as I can pee and don't have to be on a dialysis machine."

"That is why you need to have doctor examinations."

"I know, but I feel fine!" that was the way to make sure mom mentioned I "felt fine" to my doctor. Not that it would make a difference because doctors must do examinations.

That drive, far too long. The whole way, thoughts raced through my mind about the dreaded events about to happen. The return of the catheter insertion! Every turn, each road, brought us closer to the parking lot. Mom drove the car into the parking space and pulled to a stop, "We're here," mom would encourage me, "just think the sooner it's over, the sooner we can get food!" She hated these examinations just as much, if not worse than I did. To know what your child must go through and the pain of these examinations.

Just the sound of the car door open, and a walk to the entrance of the doctor's office, reminder enough. The waiting room's decorated wallpaper made it appear like a backwoods Rocky Mountain forest adventure. It is plastered with aspen trees, scattered with autumn leaves below. Quaking aspens as it happens, my favorite tpe of trees. Each tree decorated with unique bark pattern marks on their sides and colorful fall leaves. Wonder if there was symbolism behind my connection with the aspen tree?

As a child whose observations focused on the people and events around me, internalized emotions were the reality, hidden, and kept a secret. It would have to be this way, most the time. Adults rarely accept emotions and feelings from children. I could only understand other people's beliefs and how they expected me to fit in. All these experiences were how I developed and learned early on, for me to break free from childhood. I mean, children should do child-like things. Not all this crappy cautious, and careful protective stuff. That is what I felt about what was happening to me and going on in the world around me. When did I get to be a kid?

Check this out, for example, the doctor's waiting room. Yeah, it was always so strange. Weird to see the looks on other people's faces and those who sat in their chairs. People smiled while others stared straight forward. The scary stares. I could relate to the scary stare at "the door." I also knew what a patient could expect behind door number one. We all waited.

Most people in the urology waiting room were older, like over 60 years old. Here I am, a 5-year-old, already seeing a urologist. Magazines spread across the tables. As I sat and listened to the music of The Carpenters, Eagles, Stevie Miller Band, and other classical soft melodies play over the speakers. Harmonious voices sang to the haunting sounds of instruments and the singer's voice over the music.

Unforgettable moments of imagery had formed in my youthful mind. I mean, let's agree, Hotel California is a terrifying and scary song! The words and Don Henley's amazing storytelling. However, it was the music of the Carpenter's that caused me to want to stand from my chair and walk straight through the wallpaper of aspen trees. Kick up the colorful autumn leaves. Enter the woods, to the music of the Carpenters, while I made my great escape through the forest! I'm free, no catheter for me! Part of the first of my wonderful musical experiences.

What influences made people create these haunting noises? It was always a thought in my young mind. The vision interrupted, "Colby?" by a nurse who called through the window, "the doctor is ready for you."

A nurse opened 'the door,' "Come with me," all smiles, to escort me through the narrow hall and to the main examination room.

"Climb up here," her hand popped the tabletop.

I perched on the metal examination table for a torturous view of medical instruments in the tray beside me. Each one soaked in the blue disinfectant. A brief chance where the instruments and I could get to know one another. Time to imagine all types of pain each instrument caused or how the doctor used these devices. I saw containers of tubes, silver pokers, clamps, and rods. All these medical materials and other various surgical-type equipment spread around the room and left in plain sight.

The nurse used her polite voice, "I need you to put this on," and handed me a paper gown.

Awkward, "When you have on the gown, go ahead and lay back on the table." Thankfully, she left the room.

In the time it took for me to remove my clothes and put on the paper-thin gown, Dr. Armstrong knocked and entered. My backside chilled from the metal examination table. Cold through and through. Time for the worst examination process to prepare for as thoughts stuck on the catheter.

My doctor would smile, "Hello Colby," while every muscle in my body was tense. Over six-feet-tall, with a motion like Frankenstein, but the looks of Steve Austin. I know, a strange combination to conceive, between the six-million-dollar man and Frankenstein. A gentle giant.

It was difficult to speak, "Hi," and remain comfortable.

"Go ahead and lay back," so calm, because he was not the one about to get the catheter. "How have you been?"

"Good." He would press deep against my stomach and into my sides.

"Are you excited to start school?" and then, the uncomfortable moment of the penile and sack exam. All the while, continued with the conversation, "If this goes well, I will be able to clear you for all school activity." It was obvious he was the only willing one to exchange in conversation. I was silent and motionless. I froze in place, my body paralyzed.

The way he would speak was likely to keep my mind off the examination. "Bed-side manner." It reached that point the worst was about to occur when the nurse would come back in the room and begin to prepare the film slides. It was only a matter of time. Each tray pulled from beneath the table, followed by the little metal squares of letters and numbers, each snapped into a side section of the tray. The metal tray slid below the table.

The doctor had already pulled on one of those plastic exam gloves. It was the plastic snap that drew my immediate attention. His other hand snapped right inside the second plastic glove. My eyes fixed on every move, "I know this is not the best part of the examination." My eyes were wide as a deer in the headlights! The doctor would swing a large metal arm over the table, switch on the blinding examination light.

I understood what the doctor had to do, and he intended to cause as little pain and discomfort as possible. Here is the moment, with prior considerations to all I had been through, and to now face this procedure. I could never escape the visual imagery of pink gel rubbed across a thick rubber catheter tube, in connection with the amount of expected pain. Anticipation, experience, memory! Pain and comfort deep within. Eh?

The insertion of the catheter caused extreme discomfort and pain as the doctor forced it inside. Next, came a cold contrast dye pumped through the catheter using an oversized syringe. The fluid somehow managed to warm the inside of my belly. However, it was not the cleanest process to pour the "contrast dye" from a container and through the small opening of a syringe. There were amounts of spilt liquid onto my legs and around the groin area. Another uncomfortable moment of the process, along with a rubber catheter, still inserted between my legs.

No matter how much I kept still, it was not enough to avoid those shocks of pain from the slightest leg movements. A slight shift or the simplest movement on the table, to rearrange my body position, created the sharpest groin pain ever imagined, "Try and keep still." The doctor smiled as he and the nurse stepped behind a protective screen, "the x-ray machine will begin to hum."

The nurse continued to replace the small metal square stamps, "As I arrange each one of the stamps before taking each x-ray, it identifies each film. When we process the x-ray pictures, the numbers on the stamps show up on the film." Never once would my eyes miss any of the processes. I could care less about the metal stamps, just wanted to finish, and the doctor could remove the catheter.

That look from the nurse or the doctor, "Okay, Colby, I am now going to do this, and there might be a sharp pain." He felt and saw how tense I was and said, "Relax."

Which meant, "All right, prepare for hell because that is how it is going to feel." No matter how relaxed I tried to be, I was tense. Stiff as the metal table I laid on.

Lastly, extensive rounds of X-rays hummed, buzzed, whirred, until it finally came to an end. I imagined radiation poisoning my blood, flesh, and bone. However, the time arrived for the slow and painful catheter removal. Imagine the process if you haven't experienced the pain. It was burning pain in the crotch, fire, as a result, and waddling from the doctor's office to the bathroom to pee, more extreme pain. Terror! They warned me about the pain during peeing.

"Colby, go ahead and use the hallway bathroom." The nurse would lead me through the hallway. Inside the bathroom, my mind focused on the pain but also to pee; there was a distracting bubbly sensation. I decide to look down. You know, check out the scene? The bubbles were a pink gelatinous discoloration, frightening me beyond belief. Shock.

"Colby," a knock came at the bathroom door, "everything okay?"

"Yes," Not really.

"We will be in the doctor's office when you are finished."

"Thanks," as I sat on the toilet. My mind wandered in horror, "Is this supposed to be happening?" bubbles coming from my... down there!

"Mom?"

"What is it, son?" mom's voice replied. Clueless as to the personal horror occurring. The nurse must have gone to get my mom to come inside the bathroom with me.

The time for honesty arrived. Regardless of the embarrassment, I might feel, "Do other kids have to experience this?" I continued, "the pain" of boiling water flowing from my groin.

"What's happening?" I opened the door and explained what was happening. She consoled me, "The doctor said this would happen. Don't worry; it only hurts a while." Any burn sensation in the crotch region is long enough, regardless of the length of pain. No child should have to experience extreme pain at such an early age.

No one should have to experience extreme pain at any age! I became used to it, unfortunately. Finally, a waddle to the car and back home. The annual routine. It didn't end there. Oh, how I wish it did! After drinking fluids, guess what? An hour or so later, time to pee! After two or three days would pass; finally, everything returned to normal.

Back to playtime! As you can imagine, the next doctor's appointment was never far from my mind. The hurrah and the pain! The catheter and pink gelatinous bubbles from my doodle doo! Oh, fond childhood memories.

The doctor called with the results, "Colby is all clear for school."

"Colby, the doctor just called with your test results," I listened. "You can go to school!"

"Great!" not really. Mom had a smile on her face. I saw how happy she was and knew everything would change. Another journey ready to begin. Hey, if school was half as easy, compared to what I just experienced in the last five years, I was more than ready.

First Day of School

Elementary school is a combination of foggy illusions and vivid reoccurring dreams. It's not as though a kid is going to remember all of it, precisely the way things happened, or all the best experiences. Most of the time, we all wished we could forget the embarrassment of negative moments. Although, those are the moments that stand out the most. I do remember the first day of school. My school clothes did manage to make it through the washing machine. All cleaned and washed, after being in trouble from the last tunnel adventure in the mud.

That morning mom called out, "Eggs and toast are on the table. Come and get it. Hurry up; we have to get to school."

My sister in front of her plate, "Are you scared, Colby?" as I took my chair.

"Here's some butter for your toast," mom sat across from me.

"Of course," the harsh and close encounters of "the worst kind" were ready to unfold. All the stories explained to me by my sister and friends.

"The older kids are mean," sister had to provide those fears.

The pain and brutality from physical and mental scars school children carry for a lifetime. Harsh reminders of the barbaric treatment, animal attack tactics, and their patterns of pack assaults. The use of their intrusive methods to invoke fear at attempts of control and power over others. It was for real, the real deal.

August 19th, 1979, I believe, to be the first day of class. Lehi Elementary School, Utah. A small town with little to no sidewalks. Only dirt pathways next to the pavement or the sides of gravel roads. No street lights. However, personally, to have the belly tubes removed, and no more clunky glass bottles to carry around town was all right with me! Teacher's lessons, schoolbooks, and other children's dirty looks.

My first car ride driving toward life in school was like an introduction to a strange new reality. Combinations of profound excitement, butterflies in my stomach, that I could not help but share with mom, "This is like the terror of going to the zoo for the first time!" The comparison of zoo excitement was to imagine, in my mind, it would be so, so, cool if the lions, gorillas, and monkeys broke out of their cages and ran loose through the zoo. All the animals escaped from the confines of their cages and attacked their human captives. Oh, wonderful, imaginative similarities to elementary school and a zoo!

We pulled in a section of the school's parking lot, "Here's the drop off zone," and for the first time parked behind a big yellow bus. The smell of exhaust poured from the bottom of the banana colored monster.

I asked mom, "Will the bus back over our car?"

"No, Colby. The bus is parked; we're safe." Next, to my passenger door, groups of kids clamored toward the building, backpacks bounced from side to side over their shoulders. My backpack was simple, with no colors, and these groups of kids seemed far too excited. As though they were to be first in line for an amusement park ride. I would have personally rather had mom put the car in gear, drive me home, and let me be home schooled.

"These kids look like school is a state fair, the circus, or carnival," I would have preferred any or all those events. The zoo, state fair, even the circus, or a carnival, would have all been much better than this horror show. Anywhere but the first day of elementary school. The first day, ever for me, with a birth defect and a building full of rambunctious kids!

Mom sensed the hesitation, "Tonight, I will make corn dogs with ketchup and mustard. Now that will be awesome!" attempts to make things better.

"Sounds good mom," as I opened the door.

"Here's your backpack," she hugged me and smiled. "Have your teacher or the principal call me if there are any problems, and I will come to pick you up, okay?"

"All right."

"Try and stay close to your sister," who had already left to find her friends. Great. She was older than me.

The first moments were the climb from the passenger seat and out the car door, "I love you, mom." All there, ready for the unknown. It was real at this point.

"I love you, be careful, Colby!" she said. After a statement like that, why would I need to be careful? Likely, everything, including death! I closed the door.

Mom waved and pulled the car away from the curb, "Well, this is it?" I could and should have turned, run away, and sprinted for home.

Forced to enter a massive prison-like complex, endure all the experiences of the new stages in my life. Quite possibly, the best experiences ever had. On the other hand, the most horrific nightmares a young child would carry for the rest of their lives. Remember the emotion to first learn about war, genocide, mass murderers, along with all the viscous atrocities committed throughout history? Just life, as I wandered up the sloped sidewalk, dressed in the tight and squeaky corduroy pants and glossy shoes. I headed straight for the school doors. Visualize a nerdy, insecure kid with a poorly trimmed bowl haircut. It's just me.

"Oh, great here I go!" I thought, posted at the entrance. A backpack hung from my shoulder; white knuckles gripped the strap. All prepared for the new experience. The day I would seize, so I believed. Do not fear, have no fear, words in attempts to reassure me with a positive thought.

Regardless, the survival of life with a birth defect was scary enough, and more than the imagination of a 6-year-old could take. For there is nothing to fear, but blah, blah, blah. 'The inner child raised with a strict hand to obey.' A young boy who wanted to run away and get two scoops of ice cream. Go ahead; it is your choice. Instead, I bowed my head and paused for a moment of silence. Looked up, who is that?

Slow-motion took over as my jaw dropped. A petite girl, about my age, stood near a wall in a plaid colored button up shirt and modest skirt. The perfect theme song at that moment would have been: 'My Brown Eyed Girl,' "Sha la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la-la, dee dah!" She never looked toward me and my wide eyes. I fixated on her glow, an aura that beamed around an angel. Van Morrison's song echoed through my mind. My knees wobbled as time stood still. The first nostalgic glimpse of an unbelievable girl!

I would come to know her as Valerie, my first sense of the word crush. The sight of her made the sun brighter — the mood, calmer, relaxed. A light breeze carried the scent of freshly mowed grass through the air, the perfect distraction in my moments of anticipation, fear, and all unexpected moments ahead. Until that moment I opened the door. I was a grunt, but I didn't know it yet.

A squeaky voice hollered, within a bunch of older students, "Hey, you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, cheese dick, what's your name?" the rugged rat exclaimed — boys twenty to thirty pounds heavier than me.

I answered, "Colby, my name is Colby," with my first mistake. Likely, one of the biggest confrontations on my first day of school, and to tell my name to that group of pigs.

All the boys laughed hysterically, as the kid replied, "Ha, ha . . ." punched one of the others, "Colby? As in Colby Cheese?"

Another one cried out, "The kid is a cheese dick!" Each boy continued their heckling and pestering. I lowered my head and dropped each shoulder and walked away — no choice but to remain silent and disgraced. I would never become comfortable around others — the look of how my "prune belly" appeared and my extreme low self-esteem.

Already with a low self-image of myself, I hid from anyone and everyone who could expose a weakness. Use it against me, because it was a vulnerability and a flaw if exposed. I would learn to protect myself, my feelings, even though the birth defect defined me and who I was. People started to decide what to expect of me throughout my early life. Children who appeared strange, fragile, and different from others their age, each singled out and made targets.

Like all children who appear different, others sense to behave differently and show emotion, empathy, care about life, and have talents that differ from other children, always attract unwanted attention. It is just a fact of life, bullies relentlessly teased and picked on me every chance. It was adapted through adjustments to disarm and distract. I learned how to tell jokes, act funny, improvisation, and a sense of humor. A defense mechanism to avoid unwanted attention. A class clown, I was capable of distracting attention away from my birth defect until I made it out of school and made it home.

The first bell rang, "Classes are about to begin, please find the way to your classrooms," teachers called out, directed students through the hall.

"The first class is about to start." I recognized the principal but never could remember his name. "Colby, do you remember where your classroom is?"

"Yes, I think so," the awkward little boy who made through the doorway, experienced the first round of heckles and weaved his way through students and groups of teachers.

Our teacher stood near the classroom door, "Hello," her eyes peered through thick prescription glasses, "right this way, class." She shuffled kids into class, "Your names are on the front of your assigned desks. Please find your name and sit at that desk." In that moment I was calm and relaxed.

In class, kids started to speak over the others. A competition broke out between the students. These reactions were to catch attention from all other students. Boys shouted and called out, the girls screamed and squealed, "Settle down children, settle down!" Teacher raised her voice.

Other students had taken their time to craft paper airplanes, most just lazy enough to toss wads of crumpled up paper across the room. Then silence like the first scene from Apocalypse Now. The surreal forest shown through the camera's lens. At first, a peaceful glimpse of trees in pure beauty. Little innocent trees and then napalm explosions erupted across the tree lines. The teacher started to explain the first day's lesson... retreat! A silent panic of students dazed and confused. No escape, no cover to hide behind, while the kid's faces stared forward.

Children whispered indistinct secrets between one another. In front of me were two kids, "Look at what they are wearing," fingers pointed in different directions and whispers.

I wondered what my corduroy pants and buttoned shirt looked like to them — dressed in my second-hand scuffed up shoes. Student's concerns focused on who dressed in similar types of clothes. Match their groups into herds, for who would flock together, for integration in the hallways, at recess, and during lunch or after school.

My hair was longer than the other boys. Cut in a typical round shaped style "bowl cut." As if mom placed a bowl on top of my head, taken a pair of dull scissors, and cut around the sides. There were all styles of haircuts. The way the boys and girls wore their hair and dressed in different clothes had already set us apart from one another.

"Children, please pick up the papers from your desks," teacher walked to the front of the class and stood below the American flag that hung from the wall. "Our first assignment will be for you to memorize and learn to recite the pledge of allegiance."

"Please stand up and place your hand, like this," our teacher guided us, "and I will say the pledge of allegiance." She repeated the words, in time and prose, none of us understood what she said. The class mesmerized, in a trance-like state.

Once teacher had finished, more chitter chatter ensued from the students, "Students that will be all. And, I expect each of you will take your papers home, and memorize the words, this week." From that moment on, each day, we would repeat the pledge as we stood and faced the flag. Each morning, half asleep, with our hands over our hearts standing beside our desks.

School passed by, year after year. After school, we would watch crazy episodes of Gilligan's Island. Later in the evening, American Bandstand and variety shows. During the weekends, our family would do yard work and weed our small garden. Weekends were time spent to relax around the house, watch Saturday morning cartoons after breakfast. My life was no Brady Bunch, Family Ties, Full House, Charles in Charge, or Happy Days. Don't get any smart ideas about The Andy Griffith Show, or Lehi being the town of Mayberry, and me being an Opie-type little doofus.

If I got in trouble, during school, it was time for a teacher's scolding after class. When I arrived home, there would be more trouble waiting because the school called my parents. I learned to be careful what I said and did around adults. If we were disrespectful to them, our butts were busted and whooped good. It's called discipline, and I learned a whole lot about discipline, yelled at, and a good slap with the belt.

As students, we conformed to daily school schedules and routines of everyday school life. Rest period happened through the first grade with our milk and pads to lay down and nap. Then, second and third grade classes. Daily, we had "rest period," to lay our heads on the desk. Students told, "close your eyes and do not raise your heads from the desks," short of the sound of the fire alarm.

Rest time was more for the teacher's break, rather than us students. We tried to follow all the rules. Heard the loud bells echo throughout the hallways before each class. I would always do my best to turn in homework assignments on time, "Homework should be turned in at the start of each class, and placed on my desk, before the recital of the Pledge of Allegiance."

My grades suffered at times because of late homework assignments. What a young child can experience, do, and overcome! It comes with time and patience. There are enormous amounts of pressure to forge children into adults so early on and expect them to act or behave a certain way. We are kids and misbehave. But, admit it, kids are quick learners and smarter than they let on! All this felt extraordinarily different for me and uncomfortable to face certain situations. I became placed in tough spots, and because of the limitations and restrictions placed on me.

There was never a sense I could create or have an identity from the other children. My mind perceives it from the way I felt, subjective experiences put in a category, and the future already planned for me. A child survives through their abilities and strengths, which allows them to adjust to live through strange moments, unfamiliar to each experience. To learns who they are, adapt to an identity, and adjusts to every positive and negative experience. A child thrives with positive reinforcements, guidance, and direction.

Recess!

Twice a day, students dashed from the school building for recess! A sense of freedom to let loose beyond confinement inside the walls and time for brave new adventures. Teachers forgotten, but only for twenty minutes. However, my thoughts remained on injury and the terror of returning to the hospital. Teachers watched every student ensuring proper playground behavior — words from the doctor, my parents, and family all constant reminders of instilled fear. Their concerns were for my protection; people cared for my wellbeing, and mostly out of love.

As a confused child, words of caution were reminders constantly playing inside my developing brain, "You will never be able to do what other kids do"...and, "Never play sports or be a part of activities that can injure you." Also, "damage your only kidney, and you will be on that dialysis machine for the rest of your life!" As if that wasn't scary enough, "if you are hit hard enough in the stomach or back area, it could send you for another surgery."

The teacher blew a whistle, "Colby, you cannot play like that!" All eyes watched my every move at school, at home, and playtime. "Make sure you followed the rules," playground rules, in addition to Colby's restrictive rules. There were times I slipped through the cracks and out of teacher's view.

So, I took humble walks around the playground, while other kids took part in sports like basketball, kickball, or football. Activities off limits for me. I went to sit on the old wooden bleachers and scooted to get comfortable. A sharp pain on the side of my butt, "ouch," pulled up the side of my shorts, "great." I plucked out a splinter from the skin and had a problem; sitting on the hard classroom chair for the rest of the school day.

It was during those years I conditioned myself: never let anyone tell me what I could or could not be capable of, or how to live my life. The places people told me I could or could not go unless of course, it was completely unsafe and dangerous. Never let people tell me why I was able to do one thing but was not able to do something other people could do. Rebellion. All because of a defect, a type of condition, that made me different from other people.

I would develop a desire, the motivation, and intention to prove everyone wrong. Show all those people telling me, "I could not, should not, and never attempt what others tried to do," they were wrong. Those who explained I was different or horrible things that could happen to me became the one influence to prove people wrong. Such as becoming involved in physical activities, I would succeed. There had to be safety measures that could prevent injury or damage to my stomach.

I was intent on learning how to protect myself, avoid the possibility of severe injury, or death. All intents and purposes, I knew there were the best intentions involved with warnings. So much frustration and not content to become, "The child, who grew into a young boy, then a man, who limited his potential and future possibilities. He was born with a birth defect, that made him different and fragile." Yes, I had to be careful but never try, anything, no. To conceive of a life where I could succeed in an area that would make me happy became my focus and goal.

Another day at recess. Time to push the limits and boundaries and decide what interested me. I believed I was Luke Skywalker, or Han Solo, other times Indian Jones and would use personas to create my adventures. As Luke, my imaginary blaster or lightsaber was used to continue defeating the empire and faced Darth Vader on multiple occasions. As Indiana Jones, the playground became an opportunity to run through the dangers of underground tombs. All the playground equipment were the endless mazes filled with dangers I had to get through to find the golden idol and make it out alive!

At recess, kids were amazed by the smell of those red colored, thick, rubber balls. Every year I guess the school would buy new ones, and that meant they bounced even higher! The red rubber balls familiar to most used in four square and, the ultimate games, kick ball or dodgeball! That was the first game I took part in because the doctor started to clear me for limited activity. Four-square? Cool for me!

Kids would scream, "Dodgeball!" as they ran across the open field of grass. Other older aged boys could play football, baseball, and basketball. Yeah, those sports looked real fun, and cool, all restricted from my involvement. Bummer. Still, a strange attraction for danger drew me to dodge ball. Evel Knievel would play dodgeball, right? Besides, the other sports were far too difficult for me to understand.

Kids played four-square with a bunch of random rules. As I watched, the kids stretched the rules and made up their own. One of the teachers claimed, "Four-square is safe game, Colby, with your condition."

Oh, "thank you." I thought. More than likely, it meant boredom.

As I sat on the dirt slope, I watched and listened. It was hard to hear and understand what the players said between one another. It was all gibberish, these girls talking so fast. Each of the players, most were girls, and smaller boys involved. It was dumb to hear them argue the rules, "touches, no holds, and no spinners." Geesh, I'm six years old, and this is the only game I get to play?

It was at this point, "Brown eyed girl" approached. Play the song in my head, "Sha, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la... la, la, dee, dah!"

She stopped near one of the squares, about to enter the game. Literally, enter my game! There was more interest now Valerie was about to play. She looked my way and waved... waved and even smiled at me! I had the dumbest look on my face. Still, I showed complete sparkly eyes. My tongue probably hung from the side of my mouth.

But to figure out what the players were doing led me to believe these children had changed the real rules of the game. Each of them made up their own rules before the game had even started.

I made up my mind, "If I didn't understand their rules, or the meaning behind the game, I had no interest in the crappie game." Except, Valerie was there. She looked in my direction, smiled. Oh, that smile.

No one explained to me how to react to girls. In this situation, instinct was simple, play dumb boy logic. I waved, looked like a total dufus, and smiled back. Then, she stepped into the next open square.

All goo-goo gaga over this girl, I continued to watch. The punch line was me. A new player lost out at the lowest ranked square, "Hey, what's your name?" a girl yelled.

"Colby," bet I looked awkward!

"Do you wanna play?" Queen bossy pants used the intimidation voice.

So, the shy boy I was, stood up, brushed the dry grass from my tight corduroy jeans, "Sure, but if I rip my new school clothes or get them dirty my mom and dad will be upset," Queenie scoffed.

"Don't worry, Colby, you will do good," brown eyed girl knew my name!

"Service," a girl called out.

I saw her strike the serve, the ball, pop! A blur from the red streak hit an edge of my square, a puff of dust in its trail, "You're out."

"What?" I said.

"Colby, you didn't hit the ball into another square." Valerie's polite response. However, I sensed the disappointment and decided to leave the playground, only to hear the bell ring.

"Students get into your lines and prepare to return to class," teachers lined up the student herds, by grade, accounting for each student. One by one, we all filed back into the school.

From that moment on, other sports were not an interest. I wanted to learn Dodge Ball! Dodgeball... the game in which opposite teams try to blaze rubber death balls at one another to avoid a hard smack. The game played among children or adults who still believe they are children. The sport popular for us because it was a game of insanity and pain! Red marks and darkened bruises, bloody noses. The darker each bruise or bloody nose, your injury proved how hard the other player could throw a ball. Thus, their status and ability to cause deep bruises was a reputation among the other students. They are feared on the field.

A player eliminated when struck by the ball or catching a ball thrown by a member of the opposite team. Even to force another player out of bounds when someone throws the ball. To force another kid out of bounds usually meant there was a ball approaching at breakneck speed and with a good curve. Better to accept it and step out of bounds, rather than to have a swift whack to the side of the face and return to class with a red shiner on your face!

Once again, a bell would ring and the end of recess, "Return the playground balls to the racks and line up to return to class!"

The school kids rushed through the school doors, one by one. Those with bloody t-shirts placed over their noses, "Go straight to the school nurse." Each bloodied child separated from the groups and straight to the nurse. Kids returned to class with tissue paper in their noses or ice packs over their cheeks.

Here Comes Trouble

After summer vacation, it was back to prison, err, school. Okay, I get it. It's slightly dramatic to compare school to prison. However, to a kid, the environment, conditions, and student population's behavior is close call. I guess, the one good thing, we could leave the building at the end of the day. Then, came show and tell day. During show and tell, students could bring items from home if the teacher approved.

It wasn't like students could bring weapons, dirty magazines, and offensive stuff, but there were cool things to bring. Students got to show off their personal and family possessions. In a way, this was where we learned about bragging rights, or posturing at social classifications, and formed identity. Also, where kids like me learned what cool things we thought were cool but were not that cool to other kids. A sense of self-worth and insecurities?

Certain kids thought show and tell made them cool. Well, to my surprise it was "brown eyed girl" who had shared the awesome trinkets of enormous interest to the class. At least for me, when she stepped to the front of the class, "For show and tell, I have these coins. Miners used these coins in mines. Coins used for money and trade. Most of these are copper coins." Pirate treasure for me like in the movie Goonies or Indiana Jones!

To my surprise, it was later that day, at recess, the "brown eyed girl," Valerie stood at the edge of the playground, "Colby." She caught my attention. So pretty and innocent, at first.

Little did I know what was in store, "Hi," being completely unaware.

She opened her hands to reveal the coins, "Are those the coins from show and tell?"

"Yes," each one glowed in the sun.

"I will give you a coin."

"What for?" I asked.

"For each time you walk around the playground."

I paused, "That's all?"

"You have to give me kiss on the lips."

"And you will just give a coin?"

She smiled, "Yes, I will."

Being young and innocent is the key here because we are two kids. Think about the deal. I walk around the playground, then come back to her, and kiss her on the lips. Simple. Then, get a coin? Yeah, you are thinking the same thing as me. Of course, I did it!

"Okay."

I lost count the number of times I walked the playground and amount of coins "brown eyed girl" gave me. The cool thing, my pockets stuffed with coins. All I had to do was walk around the playground and kiss the girl. What a deal! That's all? At least for the rest of the day, and until later that night. In my room, as I looked over my neat coin collection, the phone rang.

"Colby?"

"Yeah, mom?"

"Did a girl from school give you some coins today?" for a moment, lying crossed my mind. I looked at the coins and thought about my coins. What I did to get each one, could I lie to my mom?

The first lesson in truth or lie, a moral dilemma, I guess? I coped to it, "Yes, mom."

"Well..." My mom opened the bedroom door, "did you hear me?" in the middle of my attempt to gather up the coins and hide the others. Too late, she discovered my pirate bounty!

"Yes, I heard you."

She stood in the doorway, "Tomorrow, take the coins to school and give them back to the girl. Those are her dad's copper miner's coins, from his collection, and they are valuable."

"She gave them to me," how can someone agree to give something away and then turn around and be the one to take them back?

"Colby, she wanted to give the coins to you. The coins were not hers to give away. You can understand that, right?"

"I get it." What an unfair concept!

The next morning, my mom dropped me in front of the school, and I returned the coins, "Sorry, Colby."

"It's okay." Her dad parked near the front of the school, and the coins returned. We had struck a deal in exchange, and I ended up being the one who returned the coinage. I had still walked around the playground to kiss her multiple times. Then, I had to return my reward. My first lesson of betrayal, that part sucked.

The coins were not even close to the amount of trouble I caused in the next round of mischief. I remembered the first time I got myself into serious trouble at school. It was 4th grade. All the students were in the classroom. It was like any other normal school day. Except, our regular teacher was out for the day. We had a substitute teacher in his place. It was clear from what other students said, "There is no way you want that teacher."

I could see it in their eye's, no joke. It was a common reaction for kids going into this teacher's class. For them to see their names on next year's classroom sheets and listed under that teacher's name, all you heard were moans and groans of disapproval. We all had 'those' teachers. Then again, the teachers knew all about the students they would get the following year as well. So, it goes both ways, I guess. Never thought of "the shoes on the other feet."

It turned out to be the day she had to leave the classroom, "Be good kids and please stay in your seats," after she received a call to go to the office. For how long?

I decided it was the perfect moment to tell my friend about a joke. The joke started under our desks, between us, as I showed him what to do. Yes, it was me. I instigated the whole prank. After he saw what I had done, "Let's do it in front of the class," there was no turning back.

Kids do not try this at all, ever!

Two naïve kids unzipped our pants and poked one finger through the holes of the zippers. You get the picture, two dumb kids doing something completely stupid. Of course, it was stupid. At the time seemed perfectly clever, "Look at me! I have a finger out of my zipper!" and impressive to my friend.

"Me too!" Both of us laughed and giggled. Other kids around us had become extremely uncomfortable and nervous, looked at us like we were nuts. We were out of our minds!

The student next to us said, "The teacher went to the school office."

Another warned us, "She is going to be back at any time."

"So?" my friend stood up on a chair.

It was in that moment we both made the decisions to test the waters. Before the class prepared for the madness about to occur, we were bolting up and down the rows of desks. Our fingers pointed from out our zippers. We moved from desk to desk, poked kids in the arms and backs. Girls screamed, other boys shrieked back, in disgust, "Come on, join in!" We were seven years old!

We had no concept of the idea what we were doing was inappropriate, except childish because of reactions from other students. Perverted was not really in our vocabulary. Nor the reality of what the situation meant, to adults, and repercussions for the consequence if caught or turned in.

Except, there was a concern, our look out, "I'll stand at the door and watch for the teacher," the boy moved to the classroom door. One step ahead of us and already seemed to be on the same level.

"Stop it," one student slapped me away.

Then, it continued, "Get away from me."

"Leave me alone!"

"Don't touch me!" part of the class was in shock and most of them laughed. My friend and I thought we were smarter than any teacher. We had the look out at the classroom's door — the boy who watched both ways for the substitute.

Our go to lookout, "warn us if the teacher comes down the hallway."

It wasn't a minute later, before he called out, "Here comes the teacher!" our lookout was on point. All the rest of the kids sat at their desks — good little students.

However, it was my friend and me who pulled out our hands, zipped up our pants, and returned to our desks. As if nothing happened. The event forgotten. We thought the joke was over just as the teacher walked in. Nope, the joke was on us! Teacher's pet told on us. The student chosen to have their desk right next to the teacher's desk for the month. The student who got to sit right next to teacher, in front of all the class. Once the teacher found out, it was a valuable lesson about "the snitch"! Tattletale, the informer, and of course, brownnoser.

The substitute stood from her desk, "You will both come with me," she called our names. A mean-spirited woman not happy or a person that ever smiled. Not the least pleased with our behavior. In our minds, it was clear we had made a play at comedy greatness. The hilarious result we saw from our unruly behavior played no part with the teacher we challenged or the consequence.

My friend realized it as well, "This is not good," and he was right.

Removed from the class and taken to separate rooms, while our parents called to come into school. In the meantime, we were both prepared to face a one on one session and the wrath of substitute teacher. I had no clue if my friend was in the principal's office. Now, it was time to think about the results of the joke that backfired.

"Sit here," placed in the chair — the teacher directly across from me, awfully close, too close for comfort. The first time I felt a fear that could have caused me to pee my pants. Unpleasant thoughts raced through my mind. Would she slap me, paddle me, with the "Paddle Board"? What horrible torture was in store?

She sat with upright posture, "You know why I removed from class, Colby?" stern and spoke in a nasty tone. I never expected this consequence or yeah, too late.

"Huh?" I played dumb, great answer. Wrong.

Her eyes changed. A vein stretched from the side of her forehead, poked out. Two muscles flexed from the sides of her neck, "You were running around the class when I was out of the room."

"Yes," I looked away.

My eyes started to focus on pictures hung from the walls. There was a picture of the president, thinking, "just don't look at her, ignore her, she won't be able to tell my eyes are not focused on her."

In my mind, I led myself to believe if my eyes looked away, she would not notice, "Colby, pay attention." I kept on with my eye routine.

I looked at her for only a couple of seconds then I looked away. If my eyes did not focus on her, kid logic, she wouldn't notice I wasn't paying attention. I wouldn't have to pay attention to this teacher's reason for being so angry at something I did that seemed stupid.

It would all be over soon, "Colby, keep your eye's focused on me this instant!" but, she yelled louder.

I soon found out she could tell my eyes looked away. I guess she could tell when someone looked at her or not? Kid logic was wrong. See, because if my eyes were not looking at her, I would not feel so scared yelled at by someone I did not know, and she would not be able to tell my eyes looked away. Huh? How did I come up with that? Kids always learn lessons the hard way.

That meant to listen as she explained why it was necessary to get a punishment. I was in serious trouble, "You cannot unzip your pants and put your finger through the zipper!"

My friend and I were just little monkeys, who would shift into idiot behavior. When class is in session, any attempt to remain settled and calm seemed irrelevant. Society cannot expect twenty to thirty children to behave, remain focused on subjects of education for hours on end. So, I was to become separated from the rest of the class for the rest of the school year and placed in a room of my own, in solitary confinement.

Until my father arrived and found out, called the principal's bluff, "What is Colby doing in that room all on his own?"

The principal replied, "You must understand the substitute teacher is broken up, shaken by the whole experience, and requested time off," with his first reason. The second, "Colby and his friend's behavior seems odd, very disturbing, and it is serious. At this point, I discussed the situation with the board to teach them in a solitary setting. That is until I can make other arrangements."

Dad disagreed, "You cannot be serious. These are just two kids who acted out a dumb joke; they do not even understand what it means. Think about it. How could they understand what this means at such an early age?"

The principal appeared confused, "I wonder where the boys learned this type of behavior? Where would two boys learn this?"

My dad was confused how serious it was to place two boys in separate rooms and isolate them over a joke that went too far, "look, I had joked with Colby about it. I will speak with him about it and make sure he understands it was wrong. But to place him in isolation and separate him for however long you plan. Well, that is not going to happen."

"Well, I do not think that changes the situation," the principal continued, "the board will have to be advised and make the decision."

"Principal explain to the board, Colby and his friend are two children, who will make bad choices. It was a silly joke, and they will learn their lesson. It will not happen again. If you think that my child is going to sit in an isolated room, alone, and not socialize with other students, you are wrong."

I mean, look at it from the adult perspective, and it goes both ways, stupid kids, inappropriate behavior. An agreement, we had to apologize to the teacher, then stand in front of the whole class and make another apology. After all the embarrassment, public shame and lesson learned, I can say there was never a repeat performance of that bad joke! No way!

It is simply not possible, in any setting! Before the recess, or end of day classroom bell to ring, for children to wait in silence for the chance to scatter. The most difficult moment was to watch the second hand of the clock tick, tick, tick, around to show the end of the day. The clock was always set to the wrong time as well, so we had to guess the time the bell would ring...ugh. However, the bell would ring, we would rush to the coat racks, retrieve our book bags, back packs, and escape! Our focus was on the quickest run home.

There was one time, my friend and I passed the park. He stopped me, "Colby," I looked, "wait, I have to use to bathroom, right now!"

"All right," I answered.

"You have to be the look out. Let me know if anyone is coming from either direction." Something felt out of place, but when you gotta go, you gotta go!

I thought he would unzip his pants to lean forward in the bushes. Nope! Before I knew it, he had squatted in the bushes right beside someone's house and was taking a dump, right there! "We don't have toilet paper. What are you doing?"

"I couldn't hold it!" He pulled up his pants, and as if nothing happened, we continued the walk home.

In my mind, thoughts on what it felt like to make the rest of the walk home without a clean wipe with no toilet paper? Gross, right? My thoughts continued to wander. I kept a steady pace in front of my friend so that I wouldn't gag or puke from the smell. What people do when faced with what the body needs to do, in a moment, to handle their business?

I didn't mind, because after school we went our separate ways and always ended up at home. Sometimes we had plans for later or no plans at all. Off to ride our dirt bikes, play with our toy collections, watch cartoons, snack, or lay in front of the television. I tried anything to avoid pointless homework assignments, which should have been completed and turned in at school.

Being home is time kids need to and can be kids. After the school day is over. What is this homework? Explain homework, in the logical sense. Time in school, all day. Then, teachers assign you homework, take home assignments, and work on school assignments, at home? Over the weekend? Huh? In school, you are there to learn. Outside school, you are home to be with the family and be a kid. Home to focus on home and cause a little trouble! Don't groom me to become a workaholic and take my work home with me!

Besides cartoons taught us all we needed to know about life, people's personalities, how to act around others. Most importantly, how to get out of trouble, when trouble found us. Cartoons taught me good schemes and plans, to reach a simple solution, and get us out of trouble, avoid getting grounded for the weekend. Now, cartoons are elementary-style homework!

Cartoons make perfect sense in the mind of a youthful adventurer. To cause chaos and introduce anarchy into an otherwise structured routine set of adult rules, consequences, when facing the act of breaking the rules. All made up by a group of drones in structured organizations, that made no sense, to me, at the time! I was a rambunctious kid. A wild child, Loony Tune!

At this point, "Elementary" related to intelligence and Sherlock Holmes. The brain's ability to process clues and evidence, then form logical conclusions and complete the deductions to the reasoning clues presented. The importance of being able to reach the conclusion and an importance of being able to deduce logic to complete his process of genius ability. Because it's "Sherlock's Elementary." But calling Elementary School... "Elementary," nope, not logical. There is nothing "Elementary" about the process, in a kid's opinion. Except, kids must listen to their parents.

Childhood Hero

As soon as I made it home from a day in 5th grade, I pushed the power button for the television. Our television was black and white, of course. Nothing existed outside a black and white television set for my family. Color television was way out of our budget. However, it was the sounds that came from the speakers. Crazy sounds with all varieties, both new and unfamiliar to my young and curious ears.

The scary news revolved around the era of Ted Bundy, Gary Gilmore, and rumors about the other murder cases. The cult of Charles Manson and his followers, among other psychos out in the big world. Those were news stories when dad and mom would stand in front of the television, to hide from our young eyes, and minds. We still heard the words. In a child's mind, monsters only existed in movies, dreamscapes of nightmares, or inside closets and from underneath a hospital bed! The rumors of the outside world were out of sight out of mind for young kids.

I turned on the television, just in time to set the stage. Television stations first denied Evel Knievel to air the event. At this point, he used his own money to have the film of his jump produced. Two people filmed the event. Before the jump took place, Knievel bet his last hundred dollars and lost on a hand of blackjack. As he left the casino, it was the moment to prepare his motorcycle for the jump.

A man surrounded by a crowd of thousands, all dressed in strange and eye-catching clothing. He looked like a space cadet or an astronaut about to step on a platform and inside a rocket ship. My little mind was about to become amazed. The phrase comes to mind, "little did I know, little did I know!"

His name pronounced through the speakers, "Evel Knievel," by an announcer, "revving the engine of his motorcycle."

The announcer's volume and tone of voice increased, changing in pitch to match the crowd's anticipation, "He revs the motorcycle's engine through the use his hand to turn the throttle and warm up the engine, preparing to make the jump of a lifetime!" Instantly glued to the front of the screen, there was no chance of distraction in this moment. The announcer's voice was enthusiastic; how could I not match this intensity? For me, this was an epic moment.

"Wow, cool!" legs folded and in attention to the action about to happen.

He dressed in a white suit, decorated with stars and stripes, an American flag-style uniform. As smoke and small flames burst from the rear exhaust pipes of his glorious machine, he prepared for his jump over a Las Vegas fountain! Smoke billowed from the rear of his metal monster. The experience was a new world for me, the "daredevil's" world! I watched Evel wave and check over the condition of his bike. Look at the engine, then back up, and waved around at his crew. No way would my birth defect ever safely allow me to climb on the seat of that fantastic machine!

Realize that every kid's dream is to emulate a superstar, athlete, rock and roll, movie star, etc. Every kid wants to be like a hero, special, in the spotlight, recognized. I would find out later in my life, this outlaw worked his way to legendary status, eluding the police. His performances included outlandish acts of "death defiance." His defiant life was like wild western outlaws that I watched in television shows, read about in comic books, or heard through stories! Not like my mere attempts to be Superman when I put on a cloth cape and tried to jump from the balcony.

For a 10-year-old boy, this was all real life. I knew full well this type of stunt was an event I would never experience in a situation during my lifetime. Evel Knievel had hyped himself into stardom and legendary status. He had already been doing jump attempts, broke records, and achieved major successes. There was also disaster, in horrible bone breaking crashes, and this would be when people criticized his attempts.

However, it was the warmup that made it clear to see the actual factors involved with the dangers that could go wrong! The man was about to jump a fountain pool in front of Caesar's Las Vegas casino, all 141 feet in length! As Knievel's motorcycle idled, time stood still and so did the motorcycle. It was in a flash; Knievel released the brake the rear tire smoked, and the bike launched into the approach for the ramp! "Oh, man!" I called out.

The motorcycle sped ahead, while the event lasted a couple quick seconds. Except in the moments when I watched the shocks absorb together with the impact of the wooden ramp. The motorcycle launched into the air and a sudden decrease in speed. All of it was like a time lapse, slow motion, moment where the word left my mouth at the same time everyone could see what was about to happen, "Noooooooo!"

When the motorcycle lost speed and momentum, any lack of takeoff and height resulted in a disastrous landing, short of the safety ramp only supported by one vehicle. The motorcycle's handlebars ripped from his hands. Evel Knievel tossed forward onto the pavement, where he skidded across the parking lot, all the way across from Caesar's Palace. The result of the crash left Evel Knievel in a 29-day coma, a crushed pelvis, and femur, fractured hips, wrists, broken ankles, but only a slight concussion.

The Evel Knievel wind-up motorcycle advertisement appeared right after the broadcast of the Caesar's Palace jump. Guaranteed the Evel Knievel windup motorcycle was the next toy I wanted!

Dad walked through the front door, "Dad, I want an Evel Knievel wind up motorcycle toy so that I can jump over trucks and buses!" The look on dad's face was priceless. As a father just realized, his son who was not in any way, shape, or form, supposed to touch a motorcycle, just watched an event where a man named Evel had jumped a motorcycle 141 feet over a Las Vegas fountain. Not just off a short ramp and to another ramp, or from a simple ramp.

"Evel?"

"The daredevil just jumped his motorcycle over a casino fountain, 141 feet across!" Dad was likely to fall over.

"Settle down, son," jumped and raised my hands in front of his face.

"Can I get it? Can I get it?" I repeated and begged.

"I will have to talk with your mom," dad and mom always had to talk with each other until further notice. If I asked mom, mom had to ask dad. When I asked dad, he had to ask mom. Of course, they bought me the toy! Thanks, dad, you're the greatest!

The personal motive that made me want to leave the dodgeball dreams behind and enter the world of ramp jumps. Be realistic; I would have to scale it down to a bicycle ramp. Somehow keep it a secret from dad and mom, "Not for a kid in my condition," or "not in any situation for that matter!" would be the response.

I would have to create the ramp jump abilities to work things out on a scrappy pieced together Huffy bike frame. No kid born with my condition would be able to convince their parents to buy them a motorcycle. Really? The thought process formulated in the fantastical child mind. The result of me on a motorbike would lead to injury and potential death. Anyway, the chance of a motorcycle would not happen. Good luck with that one, buddy!

So, it was a child's persistence, "Mom, can I get a bicycle?"

Her eyes wide as she imagined all tragic scenarios, "Colby, we will have to speak with dad and the doctor about it before you can ride a bicycle."

It was in my head to approach mom before dad, "Oh, come on mom. I promise to ride slow, be super careful, and never take it off the sidewalk," maybe she would see it my way, persuade dad and the doctor of my cautious sincerity? "Please, mom. Please?"

"We will talk with your father and the doctor," her focus kept on a clean rinse of bubbles from the dishes, from one side of the sink to the clean dish water on the other side. I always watched to see how each dish, carefully placed in the dish holder beside the sink, dried. I could barely see above the countertop at the endless activities and food.

After my pleas and bargains, conversations, and stern warnings in my parent's tone of voices, I got a Huffy. At least it appeared to be, or there was a sticker placed on the type of generic bike frame my dad bought me. All in all, the conception for me is that it came with tires, handlebars, and a seat. I recall the moments to gain my parent's trust, slow rides in front of the house, "look, riding slow and being careful," as I pretended to play along. I was a good kid, listened to their talks, and the drawn-out speeches about the consequences.

Then came preparation week at my friend's house, just down the street, and the moment of truth. Whether or not the persona of Evel Knievel would carry through me and inspire others. The plan devised as we gathered all required materials. Younger kids started to surround the first construction of our ramp, and cheer on the witless "daredevils." In my mind, I had already nailed that extreme jump. What would feel even more of a thrill than in front of my television, watching the Evel Knievel jump the Caesar's Palace fountains? Me performing the re-enactment on my block! Like I said, in my mind, become the legend!

However, I was never aware of the amount of practice it took to nail the landings. I pumped and pumped the bike's pedals, faster and faster. In approach to the front of the ramp, I felt the tires connect with the wood. My heart pounded through my chest. Mid-air, all forward motion slowed, and time stood still. A reenactment of the Evel Knievel jump. The front tire of my bike turned ever so slightly to the left. The trajectory of my front tire came down at the wrong angle, smashed into the ground at breakneck speed.

The stopping force threw the momentum of my fragile body forward, tossed me like a Raggedy Andy doll. My fragile body thrust forward toward the connector bolt between the handlebars and into the bike's frame. A small boy whose sack smashed against the handlebar bolt! I never had protective foam padding for my bike. I doubt that it could have helped much with padding around the bolt and metal sections of the bike. Correct me if I'm wrong, aptly named the nut guard? I did not have one of those, or any pads, at the time.

I hit the bolt section with my nads, tripped forward, and endo-ed slid face first across cement into the sharp gravel across my elbows. Who plans on gravel and dirt embedded into their elbows and knees? The process to have each rock dug out and removed, piece by piece, with tweezers from under bruised skin? Let alone, the sounds of the slow-motion moans of horror, from the crowd of child geeks, misfits, in the group of children that surrounded the jump. I stood up. Clothes all ragged and torn.

My bike bent to the side on the ground. Numb between the "crotchal" area, because my sack retracted from where it originally descended. Streams of blood trickled from the wounds inside my pair of second-hand jeans and down my legs. I knew what was in store for me once my parents found out what I had just done or tried to pull off in front of the neighborhood. I knew that it could have also meant damage to my kidney, stomach, or surgery for a kidney transplant.

Shredded and tattered from the after math of a want to-be Evel Knievel rampage! "Ouch?" That was dumb, lesson learned.

But, "Yeah!"

"I was the kid that made that jump on my bike!" I might not return to school the next day because of that epic crash. But, oh yeah, I jumped the ramp like Evel Knievel!

At this stage in the adventure, most kids out there might get it. Understand, crystal clear! The reason behind the phrase, "If I could only go back with what I know now." You all know that phrase.

I know there are things we say in life, but do you think now I would allow myself to jump a massive four to five-foot rickety jump? Really? A jump held up by wobbly crooked tree logs and an old warped plank! "If only I knew then what I know now?"

Of course, I would make the jump again! I was young and dumb. But, then again, how would the involvement in this event be known or that the joke was on me? Friends all looked at the goofy little boy on the Huffy and thought, "let him go for his dreams!"

Well, "It is always funnier when the joke is on someone else."

Good ol' rusty nails sticking out of the wood, rows of splinters waiting for some stupid dumb kids to devise a bike ramp? Normally. I wouldn't have done it, but Evel Knievel did it on a grander scale. Guaranteed there would be no chance of bike jumps for me after this point in life.

Another few years of childhood passed, and my parents determined that I would be able to take part in little league baseball. My involvement would have certain limitations and less time on the field than other kids, which was always a frustration. Called, "bench warmer," or, "pinch hitter," among other smart-ass remarks from my teammates. However, in my second and third years of play, hits became a regular occurrence. I even got the chance to move from the outfield to play third base! Not regularly, but a couple times. It was awesome because my team won the championship my last year of little league!

Around my 8th birthday, I became baptized in the Church of Latter-Day Saints, where young Mormon children become immersed into blessed holy waters. The process is a sign of devotion to the church, absolved of sin, yet being so young it was more involvement with that my parents had showed interest. In fairness to the procedure, it felt like a holiness of mind involved with others, the room was silent, and my father performed the ritual. Raised his hand above his head, dipped me back under the water, and said a prayer. He hugged me with a smile.

I always had big dreams shut down because of my physical restrictions. I aspired to dream big and imagine a future but accepted it would be physically impossible to conduct what the other children and men were allowed to aspire and become. There were memorable experiences of both good times and tough times. All the treasure hunts, digging more tunnels, rotten tomato fights, learning to hunt. Memories of the rivers and lakes to fish, scout camp, climbing trees and late nights dressed as a ninja where I would climb telephone poles!

Divorce

It was hard to understand the concept of being poor because we had essential things like food, clothes, and shelter over our heads. With comparisons to other families in our community it appeared their houses were extravagant, they had wonderful things, and our family just scraped by. A dreadful feel began to linger between my parents as though something caused them to grow apart. Nothing was ever enough to keep away hardship. The arguments became worse, and something felt wrong.

My father worked as an architect for a large company in Salt Lake City. Long work hours seemed to stretch for the entire week. His schedule kept him at the office from Monday to Friday and on certain weekends. There was also the commute to and from work, traffic jams, and the speed limit or harsh winter weather. Hardship and struggle were always a part of my childhood.

Both my grandmas would talk about their childhoods; how difficult it was to grow up in the early 1900s. I believed them when they showed us the pictures of when they were young and their childhood homes. We had it good because there were walks to the outhouses, no fireplaces to cook and keep the house warm. They had no fridge or freezers to keep fresh food. There were no hardships like the early 1900s because people didn't have cars. Certainly, not the type of candy, or technology in the 1970s.

Both my grandma's family had to make houses from material collected from local lumber and scrap yards. People had no electricity or furnaces, and one of my grandma's used a coal stove for heat. My dad would tell stories about when he was a child. We would visit grandma Gayle. I would see her old home and never go up the stairs. The rooms up those stairs scared me because I never knew what was up there. It really, really, scared me because I was young and had an active imagination.

Back then, it was an era of people who worked to the grindstone. My grandma Allen grew up on a sheep farm. The family always talked about herding sheep, and how far the group had to walk to move the sheep to new pastures. Parents never lost hope and kept hard at work to keep food on the table and shelter over our heads. As children, we knew not to ask for too many things, or toys, and fancy items mom and dad could not afford. It was still a mystery why mom and dad would argue between each other. As kids, we started to hear more yelling between angry parents in the kitchen or a bedroom.

After a while, everything seemed to calm and settle. On birthdays and holidays, mom would ask us, "Write out what you want for your birthdays," or "Make sure to write out a Christmas wish list for Santa," or place a department store catalog on the table.

Dad might say, "Circle what you would wish for." It was clear that it meant wish for a present within a reasonable price range. One of the toughest decisions I ever had to make was to choose a present or more than one that would not put more pressure on mom and dad. More pressure than I could sense was going on behind the closed door of the bedroom when they would argue. At first, it was quiet.

We would talk, "What are mom and dad talking about this time?" our younger sister asked.

"I can't tell."

"Is it going to be bad?" She had that look. The scared and sad look something was about to make us cry, again. The words would turn louder, and yelling would start again.

Dad would get involved in the stunt association, and I knew he was out filming movies or doing work to get into movies. There were the days when he would leave for what seemed like forever. Dad would return home dressed as a mountain man. He performed stunts in the Grizzly Adams television series. All scruffy and dressed in leather, I thought a stranger walked in the house.

When the arguments were bad, Dad would grab his coat and walk toward the door, "Dad, can we come with you?"

"No!"

We knew not to press the issue and let him leave. Mom would come from their bedroom after a while. We could see she had been crying, never knowing what to expect for the next few days. I don't remember much during these times of tension and stress. As it gets uncomfortable around adults who argue and yell the best thing for a kid to do is stay quiet or face trouble as well. When parents argue it was time to keep your head down, pretend to focus on playing with toys. Not look, keep playing with my toys.

Dad yelled more than usual and had started to lose his temper often. Adults can get confused and feel pressures that kids never understand, but it happens. I went through all those surgeries, and examinations and always felt it was my fault, for a reason. I understood frustration and anger about things, wanted life to be better and everyone to be happy.

Unfortunately, I heard more than I cared to, or the mind stored only the extreme recollections of experience, as memory. Memories recalled at a later point for important development and to learn from example, maybe? I was a young kid, a little creature of observance, to understand how adults and other people interacted with each other. Most important, how I fit in and what significance my role played in consideration with my identity.

To see each of my parent's experiences and recognize their struggles and what each of them faced must have had a profound effect on them. I could understand at this stage in their lives; it was all too much or difficult for each of them to process. I also did not see the profound effect it would have on me, at the time, or throughout my life. I was a young child and overwhelmed, confused, and lost in how the dynamics of life was supposed to work or be. To remain in a simple child's routine, play, grow, laugh, and go to school became more complicated.

My parents married at an early age. Dad was only 25, and mom was just 22 years old when I was born, mostly not prepared for unexpected complications and too inexperienced to face life's emotional problems. Life is hard and more complicated with a child who has a congenital disability. Understandably, serious difficulties and complicated issues arise, like a son with a birth defect, raising three kids, and all the bills. As important to understand, all this came across through frequent arguments from what we heard through our house's thin walls.

There were no attempts to "work things out" or "use effective communication" as a couple. I blamed myself for the problems because of my birth defect and that it complicated everything since I had been born. I did something to cause all the stress, my parent's arguments, and family complications. I assumed my sisters felt like I was the sibling who received all the attention, and I felt all the guilt and blame. My parents sure carried burdens and blame for each other, or they would not be fighting all the time.

I do not recall the exact year of my parent's divorce. Probably when I was about ten years old. The memory of when my father packed up his stuff in the back of the truck and decided to drive away from the house, I have no memory of — no memory at all when dad left us. I do not remember anything about his decision to leave, the memory of him driving away, or ever saying goodbye. I hated him and for his decision to leave. My mind could have been protecting me from serious traumatic overload. It was at this time one of my parents had reached a boiling point, and my father's rush to leave was determined to be quick and quiet. That was the end of their marriage.

Dad soon lived by himself in an apartment across town and was soon remarried with a new wife and family. I had a stepmom and three step siblings to which was not a comfortable adjustment for either family. In my adjustment to this situation, I tried to hold it all inside, as I learned how to function, not talk about my feelings because that's not what men do. Males don't openly speak about their feelings, express their emotions, or work out situations with a levelheaded manner.

I do know, from that point on, it was mom who now had the responsibility for the care of raising three children — doing it all on her own and the best damn job she could. Raised by a single parent can be difficult for both parent and child and frustrating — the worst when my parents put us in the middle of their divorce problems and issues. Way too confusing, "Colby," when dad would pull up to the house after we spent time with him, "tell you mom that..." blah, blah, blah.

As we would leave the house, mom would tell us, to tell dad, "tell your father that..." blah, blah, blah, and parents have a way to use, manipulate, and bring kids in the middle of their childish problems. It was at this point in my youth, where it started to make me feel upset, frustrated, and angry at both my parents.

Mom's sisters and her mom were not too helpful in a group situation, to visit mom's side of the family, us kids had to listen to all the relatives bad mouth dad. Then, it was the same on the opposite side. Except for Grandma Gayle, I never recall hearing one lick of spite, negative words, or talk in front of my sisters or me when we visited her home. So, I did my best to adjust to the situation and ended up just frustrated and quit speaking to my dad at a point.

When it came to parents and their marriage, the kids, and the Mormon religion, when a marriage happened in the temple, it meant a covenant for eternity. At that point, my world shattered, and it meant another change. Nothing was or would ever be the same, even to become an adult. In the LDS church, they say, "families are forever," and "families live in heaven, eternally, together forever." None of that remained, and all fell apart. As a child raised in a religion to believe in all of that was now gone. The religious fodder and services I had attended had fell apart just as quick. All my beliefs in family, religion, love, and anything that concerned family, before the divorce now erased after the divorce, wiped clean from the slate.

To my shock, I grew to learn there were statements, comments, and actions that disturbed me on various levels about being involved with that church. I began to question things on my own, develop my thoughts and perspectives at this age. I was not going to continue in a condition to follow one teaching, then have the organization turn around and change it. I would not be in a state of group conditioning to believe this ever to be my truth belief in spirituality. I left the organization for my reasons. Think for yourself, question everything; this would include authority. Their organization made changes over the years, to keep up with a status quo, but not then, not at my age. I was out of there and fast, the first choice I had.

I saw in the LDS religion that people of other race, women, or sexual orientation not granted the same privileges or treated the same as the men and the leaders of that church. I remained open to certain aspects of the teachings only because I still hold to my higher power and spirituality. As an archetype, Jesus Christ was a cool guy. Although, it was for personal and truth belief from my own accord and choice that brought me to leave the LDS church. For the simple reason, I did not agree with the values, standards, and belief systems. The system collided and contrasted with my idea to an openness and free will to others and to find myself by my methods and life's journey.

Too much guilt, secrets, and hypocrisy within the congregation, but there is always repentance and penance to pay for sins of all types. Halleluiah, forgiven. I do feel most churches and religious organizations have good intention and start that way. There are also other churches that have aspects to negative correlations as part of their congregation and the factors within the teachings. I searched more throughout life to find my spirituality. What I found, personal to my intention, purpose, and values for a kindness and meaning what it means to feel alive and how to treat people, who treat me as such.

The Middle

Summer ended, along with my mom and dad's marriage, as did summer break, which meant the start of another school year. This was the year of my big jump to junior high. Older friends manipulated my imagination with horror stories about what the other students did to the younger ones. Their methods to instill fear into the imagination of my young mind. Impressionable young students completely unaware of the expectations that awaited us. All the comforts from past routines, and the conditioned ways of elementary school days gone.

Pressures intensified to epic proportion with regards to the increased rumors, "kids look to pick on the younger students," said a friend.

"And, don't leave out the regular beatings," said another.

My sister mentioned, "There are the teenagers that go steady."

"What's steady?" I asked, to prepare for anything other than class, homework, and to listen to my teachers.

Sister explained, "Two people are going steady, they are a couple, dating, and boys and girls kiss each other."

"What?" I knew about kissing. 'Dates,' and 'going steady,' a new concept.

"Adults are not the only people who chose to be a couple as we get older.

"Colby, when a girl tells you she is going steady with another boy, do not to get in the middle of a relationship."

"Bad idea?"

"Really bad idea."

"Relationships? At our age?"

"Yep!" she looked away as if it was completely normal.

I just saw what happened to my parent's relationship. So, I could not grasp how a teenager's young mind could ever manage an adult concept that adults could never work out. Though, other married adults in my town seemed happy. Life is far too complicated to think about dating, relationships, or going steady.

"Teenagers should focus on school, good grades, and how to make it through each day in one piece and not get beat up!"

"Colby, if anyone picks on you, pushes you around, or does anything to hurt you, I want you to remember..."

"What?"

"You tell me, mom, or the teacher and principal. It will get taken care of."

"I find it hard enough just to focus on a combination to the locker,"

"You have to remember to write down your locker combination in two places. Keep it secret and never tell anyone your locker combination," another major difference in middle school, students have their lockers. In grade school, we hung our coats and had little book nooks that we placed our backpack inside. Simple.

"Huh?" I asked, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"You lose your locker combination you have to go to the principal. If you give out or lose the paper with your combination on it, the other kids will break into your locker and steal your books, coat, anything they can get their hands on."

"I'll be careful."

Dad and mom divorced a new school environment, unfriendly students, new teachers, and multiple classes each day. Continuous degradation and embarrassment during classes with stricter teachers. We had more than one teacher for all types of subjects. Students have a different teacher for math, science, history, and physical education or shop class which turned out to be the scariest class of all.

The school days and students were ten times as harsh. It was relentless because no one focused on boys being boys, and regular activities that seemed like harmless play. Oh, it was not just play, or jokes and practical jokes played on other students. Teachers would turn their backs, students would catch one student alone in a room, and it was something terrible to remember.

If it would be to stuff a kid's head in the toilet, catch the regular in between class beat down, or bully them by shoving someone into a locker. I would not have been alive to tell this story. It is a horrific thing for students and parents to experience. Only to point out that back in the day, half of us would never have made it without the buddy system. It was the harshest and violent scenarios caught in the showers by yourself. Not for all kids but a dreadful truth. School back then, B, R, U, T, A, L... Brutal!

Junior high school presents a wider range of extreme complications. There are different musical tastes and self-expression through all types of clothing, new and extreme haircuts. Kids speak with unfamiliar words, who you "hung with," who you "made out with," and various social circles. So many "cool" factors, left most in the dust from the popular species. The kids with wealthy parents and families were the privileged. Guess what? You were as vulnerable, emotional, and struggled like all the others. Only, just more experienced to mask your fears, keep your secrets, or hide the emotion and vulnerabilities like the rest of the students.

Oh, and those awesome hair styles, tragic choices that would haunt us for life. I admit it! I was the first in town to sport a full mohawk. Yes, I was the one who took on small town Lehi with the mohawk. My head shaved to the bare skin and with so many comfortable fashion styles, no one was ever ready to accept that choice. It took its toll and backfired. The principal was never impressed or satisfied, either. Completely obvious. Other typical hair styles consisted of the comb over, a slick grease and split, or smelly perms that would emit their stench from down the hall.

Others like me dared the ducktail, but it was mostly kids in my school who chose the mullet style. Those dudes even permed the backs of their mullets. So many doofuses walking around like their hair was the latest trend and others shamed into following their lead. Being the trend setter or the first to sport the modern style was the method for all popularity contests.

School systems never had a structure in place to confront the issues of kids shoved in the face, pushed around and head locked on the floor, or knocked down and punched. Not until the shit hits the fan. Let alone approaches for how to containment the idiots. There was no control from the teachers or the principal.

Problem was if you snitched you got a much harder beat down the next time around. Once the bully found out, it had been you who snitched and caught you alone. Catch 22, so take the lumps and don't say a word. Trust me; I tried to avoid everyone. To know someone had snitched was reason enough to avoid that person, or else there was a chance of caught in the aftermath.

Once the word was out and spread through the grapevine, that was it, over. It was at that point other kids didn't even want to hang around the snitch. That only meant the bullseye target on your back, also for any other kid stupid enough to hang around the snitch. You may as well take your medicine. Would that be two or three lumps? Better be fast enough to outrun the bullies and make it off school grounds. Make it home to safety before they caught up to you. Remember my name is Colby, so It always had to be the Colby "Cheese" joke.

Bullies were always larger than me, which meant if you were lucky enough to make it out the school doors, I could outrun them in a foot race. Larger kids usually have a speed burst of a mere forty to fifty feet, or in other words, a half block. At this point, their legs gave out on them or created the heat friction and loss of breath before catching up to their victim. However, there was always the next school day. Ask any kid who got away that day and that same kid will tell you he got a good beating the following school day.

Like any other schools, there were the strict teachers. Those teachers with extreme expectations followed all the rules. They used fear through enforcement, keeping the herds in line and formation, leading to the ease of the brainwashing of minds. Follow the authority of the leader, stick to what everyone else thinks and believes, never question what they taught in the classroom. Yes, please, fill young minds full of false truths, misreported historiography from myth in history books. When it came time for delivering "knowledge" through educational information contained in scholastic books, teachers would oversee all support for the manipulated lies told throughout history.

The before, during, and after class experiences far more entertain the masses, rather than to continue with the false reality of history, or "his" story. And isn't that the whole evolution of what the world has come to these days? Continue to feed the masses, and please, what it is everyone wants. No attempt to break the mold or push the envelope, think, and question authority.

So, understand, I am in a house with a mom and two sisters. Three females and I'm a Pisces! Of course, there are those times when life was full of confusion, and things would become overwhelmed. Who wouldn't be? There was always the hush, hush talk. The stuff a son, a brother, was not meant to hear or could even understand. I remember the arguments, some yelling between mom and dad on phone conversations. I was out in the living room, while memories of yelling remained. Mom would be crying more often, than not.

My mother and father's divorce happened when I was super young; a child has questions. You can never feel comfortable to ask because it is an uncomfortable situation. Questions like: what decision made them not want to be together? Was it something I did? What would happen now? Oh boy! The messages continue. I know it wasn't just me who had to deliver message between parents. Like children were postal carriers, and the adult's abilities to communicate had to occur between children.

For instance, you know the part I mentioned, "Tell your father that... blah, blah, blah."

My father pulled into the driveway, to drop us off from an outing, and there it was, "Kids, I love you and tell your mother that... yadda, yadda, yadda..." Mostly about legal things, adults should keep between them. So, my sister's and I were frustrated. And when children get frustrated, what do children do? Usually, argue and get into a fight!

Fights between siblings can become a harsh clash of exchanges. I mean anyone who has ever had another a sister, brother, or more than one sibling knows and recognizes the rules. Exceptions for a brother exist for a reason when it involves a fight with a sister. Fights between two brothers, forget about any rules because rules rarely exist. One brother starts with a single push or a shove. Next thing you have are both brothers who throw punches, and it's a full out swing fest.

Between sisters and brothers, it was throwing their stuff, punching, or kicking the bedroom doors. Maybe, pushing and shoving, pulling my hair. Mostly, it was, "Yeah, run and hide in your safe zone, Colby!" which was better to retreat till I had devised my comeback and rediscovered confidence. A new plan of action, "You think I'm scared of you?" come from the room with wrestle mania moves and take down everyone to the floor.

Then, mom found out, "Why are there holes in your brother's bedroom door?" and "who cracked your sister's dresser mirror?"

"She was..." I argued.

Sister replied, "He did this..."

Mom ended all conversation, "Well, you are both grounded to your rooms, no weekend plans, no television, and no discussion!"

The dreaded time to wake up in the early mornings felt wrong, "Time to get up and be ready for school in thirty minutes!" the return to school after a weekend sucked. Maybe where the hatred for Mondays became instilled in the mind.

Since the beginning of school, none of my friends said, "I like Mondays." Monday has a bad reputation and always will. At that age, forced to be in school sucked because as students, it was a repetitive routine. Every day was the same, and nothing changed.

A return to school meant to wake up at the crack of dawn for breakfast put on school clothes and comb the hair. We had one bathroom in the house and three girls to one boy. When it was my turn to get inside the bathroom, I was always the last ready for school. The shower water was cold because who wakes up before everyone else and is ready for school on time?

Mom announced, "Ready for school, kids?"

"Not yet!" I would reply.

"Breakfast is ready, so hurry up, eat before we leave," mom clanged each pot and pan doing dishes in the sink in a rush. While we would brush our teeth, look in the mirror, all tried to look like the popular kids.

I was still under medical supervision, "Colby, I will be at the school to pick you up for your doctor's appointment at 10:00 a.m.," and had to return to the doctor for regular examinations. Constant supervision and annual examinations for my birth defect.

Not only was I called from class by the office secretary, the announcement made over the school's PA system, a huge embarrassment, the uncomfortable routine, "Colby Van Wagoner, your mother has arrived to check you out of class, please come to the office."

I always thought, "great I know what today's fun will involve... the rubber catheter, pee pain for days, and bubbly pink gelatin from my hole!" Sign me up for more... like there was a choice in the matter.

Not Like the Others

When the dreadful time of school arrived, a required course is physical education, also known as P.E. for short. The class with that horrible dress code, students in tight seventies sport shorts, and ugly shirts with school logos. P.E. teacher call out, "Get dressed and meet down in the gymnasium for today's physical activities." The coach walked to and from his office, up and down the rows of lockers, freaked all the students out. Random announcements spoken with an awkward voice and eerie shaped physique, like a bowling ball pin. Creeper coach was always calling students, "Governor."

I had a total insecurity about my body and low self-esteem about how my lower stomach looked because of my birth defect. It looks like Buddha's pot belly, and people are cruel. As described, all lack of stomach muscles is the reason behind this unfortunate body shape. Kids were relentless and teenagers as viscous beasts that lacked any empathy, "What's up pot gut?"

"Hey, pot belly," or "you going to have a baby?" it was the worst.

Not to mention, without stomach muscles taking part in physical activities was extremely difficult, almost non-existent, impossible. There was no rope climbing, no wrestling, or other lighter workout activities. I could not complete a single sit-up or leg lift. When the teacher walked behind the line of students to see our performance, he reached me on my back.

"Come on, Colby, you mean to tell me you cannot do one single, solitary, sit up? What's the problem? Come on, Colby." leaned over me, close enough I could smell stale fish breath that I nearly puked.

"I don't have any stomach muscles," to think, how in the world does my moron of a teacher not know about birth defects and physical conditions being the physical education teacher?

I know his words overheard by the other students, who rocked up and back, perfect in their sets of pushups without any problems whatsoever, "Are you lying to me?" The point I would have to explain it all to my parents and then have them talk to the school principal and involve the coach. The cycle of discussion.

Great, another form of restrictions from the adults. Explain again, "You will never be able to do what other people do. You cannot play sports, especially not wrestling, basketball, football! Stay away from motorcycles, bicycles, and attempts at activities that might injure you, and damage your last and only kidney!" blah, blah, blah... never try, never succeed.

I know, because it was said so, so, so many times it was like a phrase I could speak in robot, "I could be on dialysis the rest of my life, even worse, I would have to go back for other surgeries, or die if I am hit in the stomach, or on my back area. So, I can never play like the other children do!"

There was more focus on my every move. All eyes on me! More than before elementary school, or at home when I would play in the front yard, or to be out with friends, "Guys, make sure Colby does not do anything that could hurt or injure his stomach and back area!" making sure and follow every rule. Embarrassment in front of friends.

Once the principal was aware, all the teachers were aware, as were rumors spread around by the students in the school. The principal's office started to feel like a second classroom for me. Like I said before, no one would ever tell me "what, how, where, when, or why I was not able to do something." Especially this coach, that teacher, the principal, err... warden also president of the local stake LDS church, whatever power he believed he held. Enforcer of the rules of two institutions.

Colby, "my start to the anti-establishment, what does it all mean? Yeah come and get it, I'll show you because I know all about Public Enemy, Pink Floyd, and the Sex Pistols!" Fight the Power! Another Brick in the Wall! Anarchy in the UK! These first sparks of the revolutionary punk rock and roll, hip-hop days!

If others were physically able and I had restrictions, because of my condition, that made me different from other people? Forget that! I would carry with me all the desire, motivations, and intention to prove to everyone wrong. Prove the teachers, principal, my mother, and father wrong, and everyone else that told me, or tried to explain why I was different and what I could not achieve. What could happen to me if I tried something dangerous and got involved in physical activities? Strike fear and worry in my mind to get me to live in a shell or restrict any life of achievement and happiness.

There must have been personal discussions with the students at a certain point. Kids begun to look at me differently, whisper, and point. Not that I needed that sort of attention. I was already insecure and self-conscious about my body and the way my stomach looked, not to mention the penal/crotch region. You are aware that students in physical education take showers after class? So, I had to be naked around other kids. Oh, spectacular! At this point, I learned to wear my t-shirt into the showers to cover my stomach area and brought an extra shirt to change into after the shower.

It is not like you need to have this explained, or it does? See, for most people, being naked or shirtless in public is not a comfortable situation, to begin with, follow me? I learned to wear a t-shirt to the public swimming pool and swim in the pool wearing a t-shirt so no one would see my stomach area. The t-shirt covered my abnormal stomach and took care of the way I felt about my body image. There are Adonis type of exhibitionists, genetically sound individuals with perfect bodies. People who have complete and total confidence in the way they look and feel about their bodies around other people. You might look like the rest of those regular people, normal and not deformed. I have a defective and abnormal stomach shape.

Students who gazed upon me, like I was a type of freak show. There is nothing unexpected about it because people fear or consumed with what they do not understand. There are those people out there who can strip down to bare nakedness. Natural to them, unnatural for me, because groups turn and stare, look, examine other people's bodies, and make comparisons to their own. See what other people look like naked, I guess? Well, I was not comfortable and never was in my body or with how my stomach looked.

And... me, the pint-size naked boy, holding his hands over his crotch, "Why is your belly like that?" when someone called out. All heads turn.

Another said, "What happened to you?"

"Where did you get that pot belly?"

"How do you pee through your dingle ling when you get a catheter tube shoved into your penis hole?" Questions led me to develop the sneaky ability to avoid the showers by any means necessary.

The monotonous sounds of locker doors that creaked and slammed closed, usually meant it was the time to return for other classes. A group of boys passed behind me as I sat on the bench in front of my locker. One by one, a couple of the boys slapped my head forward.

One of the older boys slapped his hand against the back of my head, "Geek."

His buddy added, "See you in the hallway, later on, fairy." It was the bully from the beginning of kindergarten. Now, with a look of insecurity in his eyes. I would continue to wear a t-shirt in the showers, at the public pool, and even avoid the showers all together, avoid humiliation.

Months passed with the same events experienced daily. The diverse student body dropped into an educational melting pot. Expected to learn the ways of the world, to act, dress, and behave like the rest. All an illusion. An understandable natural progression for rockers, jocks, cowboys, nerds, and geeks, with similar styles and clothing to band together. Those who would relate better with people that they were comfortable around and be in groups together.

Everyone talked about him and her, or Brad and Dave, Stacey and Susie who would walk the hallway to their classes, eat at the same lunchroom tables. Herds brought a smile to my face because there is the unfortunate continuation of these incidents happening in all present-day tenses. Even after middle school and high school, it happens in college and the workplace. It does, but it does not have to happen. I get it, it all boils down to relation and shared connections, politics, religion, music, family interests, and through other personal interests. Constant mistakes had me confined inside the principal's small office.

I always found a way to break the rules. I tried to be good, except adults only focused more on negative behavior. It was a phase in my life where trouble just found me, or I sought it out for attention. All the confusion and frustration internalized from my parent's divorce or to stand out as the rebel seemed to land me in the hot water. You know I come to realize there was never a call to the principal's office for praise of good behavior and positive feedback.

Never a point where I would receive a simple pat on the back, "Excellent job, Colby, keep up your excellent work," as a result for expected performances or good behavior. All intents and purpose toward positive interactions from the teachers and principal faded for any future interests in school because there wasn't a chance for any successful support systems. So, forget about it.

Another month had passed and another end to what I had believed to be "just another day." Wrong again! I had just walked down the hallway to leave when a girl stopped to warn me, "Colby, watch out."

"Why," not impressed in the moment.

"Three of the kids have plans to cut off your tail once you leave school. Better leave through the side door."

I was tense, and I wasn't sure if this was all a setup, or if the girl took part in it, to get me caught outside a side exit from the school. Either way, I grabbed my books, shut the locker, and headed for the side exit. The coast was clear, at first. Just as I made it to the end of the school, the three boys jumped from behind the wall, "Hey, Colby, Nice ponytail!"

"It's a braided tail. What do you care?"

"We are going to cut it off, fairy boy!" One of the kids pulled out a pocketknife as the other two grabbed my arms and pushed me up against the brick wall. At first, I struggled to fight against their grip, but their group force held me against the wall.

After the knife sliced the hair, and my head bumped against the brick wall, I had a couple bruises and bumps on my forehead, but the whole situation ended. One of the boys had my tail in his hand, "See what happens?" He threw it to the ground and folded the pocketknife closed. All I did reach to the ground and grab the lock of hair, turned, and left, so they had no satisfaction at all. Why should they get gratification for stupidity?

"You better not tell anyone about this, either!"

As I arrived home to walk through the front door, heard, "Colby, come over here," mom say, "and turn around. Did you cut off your braided tail?"

Mixed emotions flowed through me. I never tried to lie, "No," as mom waited, "some kids at school pushed me against the wall and cut it off with a knife."

Mom was on the rotary phone within seconds, the sound 'click, click, click, click," repeated. Those fingers dialed away. Rage in her eyes, as I walked to the front room and sat on the couch, only to hear the conversation from the kitchen, "Those kids used a knife to cut off my son's hair and shoved him against the wall..." some other choice words and indistinct phrases. All I recall was another adult visit to the principal's office, parents in the room. One by one, the kid's parents and children showed up at our front door, apologizing for their actions.

"Ugh," one of the kids was held by his father's arm, "sorry, Colby, for cutting off your hair." That was that or not. I wanted to believe things would change.

Skate or Die

It was another summer break. Except, all intents and purposes were to place focus on adaptations to new talents. Improve our skills to form types of new identities for the big transition from middle school to the first freshman year of high school — an overwhelming intimidation in an unknown environment. Most days spent in front of the television, would cruise Lehi's main street, back and forth, around he high school parking lot, and back to the other end. Cruising!

My friends and I would pile into a van and head out to Saratoga, west of Lehi on the northwest edge of Utah Lake. The place was the oldest swimming resort in Utah. When our group went to the place, I would still have an extra t-shirt to wear in the pool and going down the slide because of the issue I had with people seeing my stomach. That would still be an insecurity.

We discovered the hot springs near Saratoga seven years later, a location that soon became a popular picnic area. For teenagers, it was a place to skip school, and for us to head for after the sun set below the west mountains. The place was out in the middle of the corn and wheat fields, farms, and cow pastures. Turned out to be a weird place to set up a water resort and amusement park.

Saratoga converted into the swimming resort, an amusement park, their first amusement ride, the Kiddie Planes. Saratoga had strange carnival-like rides and games. Natural warm springs flowed below the swimming pools to supply the hot natural resort water. It was a cool place to hit up on the weekends. We played in the arcade, miniature golf course, bumper cars, and a boat harbor nearby which offered lake cruises. With its landing strip, Saratoga was the only resort in Utah that was able for people to reach by airplane, vehicle, and boat.

Saratoga, known mostly for its hot spring pools, and eventually 35 amusement park rides and games, made it a popular destination during its heyday in the '60s and early '70s. Memories of Saratoga are of the dance pavilion with its indoor/outdoor dance floor and indoor swimming pool building. It was around the 1980s when the owners chose to install a three-story water slide. Everything in the county turned awesome for thrill seekers!

Those who had the chance at a run down the slide would experience an exhilarating ride and never forget the 350-foot long "Kamakazi." The slide became one of Utah's first water slides, and we loved to spin, catch speed, and hit the drop points to catch air. The water slide tossed riders from side to side around curves and drops, around sharp curves. Rumors people had spread people went over the side of the slide because of the high rates of speed down the slide.

The reason our favorite Saratoga resort ended was what made it popular, to begin with, water. During 1983, Utah Lake rose to its highest level on record and flooded. Which really sucked for Saratoga because the entire harbor was under water. Saratoga, the once-popular last resort on Utah Lake, broken down. The surrounding acres later sold to a group of investors who planned to incorporate the swimming pool, old dance parlor, and boat harbor into a 600-acre Saratoga Springs housing development.

Once the thrill ride of Saratoga ended for the day, we spent most days during our past time and studied the latest professional skate videos. All the latest and impossible tricks, and techniques the professional skaters pulled off, trying to practice and learn each of the skater's moves. Then, would practice and practiced, over and over, on our second-hand skate decks. Each of our secondhand skateboards pieced together with a bunch of leftover parts from the skate shop. Each picture from Thrasher and other skate magazines cut out and taped on the walls and our bedroom doors.

Late into the dark evening nights and early morning hours, during summer school break, we played the same video games and were now engaged in conversation about girls, "Hey, have you beat this game yet?"

"Almost," my friend's manipulation of the controller moved at a lightning pace, "stick and move, stick and move." My friend was the first to have his own Nintendo and Punch Out was always the game he aimed to beat.

"You know the rules."

"I know, the player that loses hands over the controller to the next player," problem was, he was so much better than me, and I would lose out in the first two characters. My friend had played so much; he could make it to the end. All it meant was for me sprawled out on the bed, reading a skate magazine and being quiet as kept, to not wake up his mom and dad and have to leave, and watch him play the same character over and over, "This is lame."

If we weren't in the middle of two friends getting involved with one or the other, it was a group of girls, who were more than willing to end up "on the switch," the next day. You know, one girl would be interested in one of us, on one day. The next day, the same girl held the hand of another friend and off they went, somewhere. Strange that we never minded one bit? It was just the way things worked between us. We never spoke out about it, just went along. Weeks went by and one summer.

Soon, the movies were coming to the dollar theatre. One-dollar tickets and my friends and I would go to the "Sticky Shoe Theatre" sitting in the back rows with the girls. The fact was the floors seemed to never a cleaning from the soda, candy, gum, popcorn, and all other sugary goop built up on the theatre floor. If anyone had to get up in the middle of the movie to use the restroom, the whole movie theatre had to hear 'squeak, squeak, squeak' or squishy shoes in between the best parts of those 80s flicks. We loved Back to the Future, Gremlins, Goonies, and other John Hughes movies! However, we always arrived early to snatch the back-row seats. Use your imagination about what the back rows of the movie theatre happened to be for, wink, wink.

We all continued to save our money to buy new skate decks, the higher priced Independent trucks, and different name brand wheels. There were pieces to the puzzle and accessories, to cutting the grip tape for our skateboards, the magazines, and skate videos, all essential practice how the pros performed and landed those tricks. Once word spread about our skate crew, I had no idea a friend I had met months earlier would introduce me to another circle of friends. An older, high school crew. We would still skate and build massive ramps always hang out with new and old friends.

Situations changed like the seasons. One day, it would be summer, and one group was out at the public swimming pool with the girls. Other days, it was weekend camp trips or being with the family at family reunions and holiday parties. Then, it was a different night, after dark with another group friends. I found myself out to experiment with the older crowd, a couple drinks and smokes.

There was a local convenience store in town. If you knew about it, or lived in and grew up in Lehi, ask anyone about the stories from this store. The teenagers who went in for a specific purpose. To be the distracters while the rest pocketed the good stuff and rushed out, "Will this get us in trouble?"

"Only if you get caught, so don't get caught!"

There were certain groups of kids who knew that they could go in and buy six packs of beer, telling the cashier it was root beer. A couple of the cashiers would fall for the kid's tricks. Other groups would walk in, take the packs of beer, walk out. We had been a distraction crew for the most part and felt comfortable being the ones on the lookout. I was comfortable with the vantage point of not caught shoplifting. I knew it would mean more trouble with the police. Soon as these two hands reached for anything in that store, the clerk would turn, I would be busted and end up at the police station.

One day, my friend and I walked in the store, had our share of baseball card packs pocketed, enough candy bars for the night, and a pack of Cambridge smokes. Yeah, something inside just told me to take the smokes from the counter rack, troublemaker. Finally, next to that pack of smokes was a Talking Heads cassette tape, 'True Stories.' Sorry, took that tape too!

For all newbies out there, a cassette tape was something that music old schoolers used to play. We left the store and sorted through our candy and baseball cards. Split up the bounty. We had walked across a field for the short cut route. Problem was, neither of us cared about the cigarettes. Best part was about to happen. My friend had stuffed all the cigarettes in his mouth. I mean, he packed every one of those smokes into his mouth, and we lit all of them at the same time.

Laughter, hysterics, and it didn't take much longer, "Dude, there is a car headed this way." Mouth packed full of lit smokes; we laughed, he puffed away, "Oh man, it's my mom's car!" after he had spit and tossed all the cigarettes on the ground, just behind him. And the smokes smoldered on the asphalt. We hoped for his mom to pass, wave, and continue her drive home. She was a cool mom, way nice.

To our demise, she stopped, "Hey, you two, what's going on?"

Moms have a magnet for when kids are doing something they shouldn't be doing, "We are headed home." My friend looked at his mom, held his skate deck. Looked just behind my friend and at his feet, cigarettes, scattered around him. The wind blew each cigarette, rolled each of them right my way, on the asphalt.

Evident by the look on her face, our gig was up, "Colby, I think you should go home now. It's getting late."

"All right," I took my skateboard, looked at my friend, both knew what was about to go down.

Not much longer, after the smoke incident, there were less phone calls from my friend. We hung out less and went our separate ways. Our parents agreed that one of us or the other was a bad influence on the other. If only our parents knew how the world was going, and how things worked, back then? Word must have reached my older friends, because more and more I found myself still in Junior High, being out with all my high school friends. My spot in high school secured after that. Besides, from what I heard about high school; it could get rougher than middle school.

Like going into junior high and the stories about the older kids and teachers. Except, it seemed there was already a pact between my older friends from high school and the other older students. Do not mess around with our friend, Colby. It was a nice sense of security to have good friends around going into freshmen year of high school. A group who had your back, and I knew they were there when I needed them. Of course, there was the unspoken bond, when by people, or police it was a general rule of thumb we were all expected to try and out run them! We all expected the other to run.

High School Never Ends

If parents understood how their kid's world evolved, the variables of the teenage environment, and how their mind evolved, things work differently. Parents normally become involved in their routines, their world. I could see my mom's life change and placed in a position that involved a single mom's responsibilities, what made our lives as teenagers change. My sisters and I were between two parents, torn, confused, and in a home with one parent. I looked to search out how to adjustment in high school and what would better help me make it through.

Between friends from junior high and other teenagers, I had become introduced to an older group of friends, showed up at teenage parties, would hang out at their houses and watch movies. Eventually, word must have reached my older friends, because the more and more I found myself at the end of Junior High, there were more moments I hung out with high school friends. My spot in high school had felt more secure after that. Besides, from what I heard about high school first-year students; it could also be another rough change. Like going into junior high for the first time, the same happened in high school, and the stories about the older kids and teachers were not comfortable.

There was a pact between my older high school friends, and most other students. High school students did not confront me as much, in the way junior high students were bullies. It was nice to have good friends who had my back during high school. Friends I knew would be around when I needed them. Of course, there was the unspoken bond, when chased by adults, or police, it was a general rule of thumb, we were all expected to try and out run them in case of trouble! We all expected the others to run because it was a given.

After the formation of my first tribal connection, it was clear high school would prove to be an interesting journey. All because those middle school initiations placed me directly into the high school circle of those who had my back, no matter what. Everything appeared to be getting better for the most part or at least appeared as much. Not to mention, my circle of friends taught me the ins and outs of life's special situations and then how to react when I was in unfamiliar territory.

Around junior year, the big moment of driver's education course arrived. Not to mention, a milestone and my 16th birthday, along the path of survival over 16 years with Eagle Barrett syndrome, against the odds thoughts, fears, and examinations told patients are not likely to reach this age. The continued surprise, "Congratulations, Colby, you passed the driver's test, and will receive a driver's license!"

A month passed since my test at the DMV for an annual doctor exam. At the next doctor's appointment, "Congratulations on getting your driver's license Colby," my doctor prepared all the medical devices, which included the catheter. "After today, if all tests come back to show functional kidney and bladder drainage, I am going to limit the annual exams to every other year and see how things progress." Those words were like music to my ears.

I had reached the age where most patients born with Eagle Barrett syndrome require weekly dialysis. Other patients have had at least one or more kidney transplants, or other surgeries, to correct complications or faced the unfortunate results of death. My heart goes out to all patients and their families that have experienced any debilitating injury, illness, disease, birth defect, neurodegenerative, or physiological medical issue. Millions become diagnosed yearly, and experience hardships, medical bills, and life altering changes to manage and receive medical care.

It was the doctor's continued warning that I need to keep vigilant. I was not out of the woods, and my health needed to remain a high priority, "I don't want to hear that you have been on jumps or driving like a maniac!" Dr. Armstrong's towering height, and warm-hearted demeanor with his kind smile of happiness to see me survive and come so far.

Being 16 years old with the relief to arrive at the age of expected survival was more than enough to let go of the horrors in the back of my mind of the dialysis machine, kidney transplants, and death. The first weeks, months, and years of high school were already complete drivel. It was clear, all through elementary and middle school, the students selected as future scholars to receive money and grants for college. Most the students seemed to know and received special treatment, acted snobbish, and in the upper class, so for us, what was the point? It never got to the point to drop would be a choice. The simple act of getting decent grades, and my degree was the only choice.

Once I completed my freshmen and sophomore years, my friends and I began to select junior and senior courses together. My interests were drama, stage crew, and other "artistic" classes. Somehow it worked in the ability to avoid too much time at school. Things became interesting! Other students seemed unaware of what my friends and I had discovered. All these moments started to become the best experiences and most important developmental stages that no educational system could ever provide, life lessons!

I loved the games at this point! My junior and senior high school years were formidable conquests like knights in shining armor perched across from other knights encircled at our round table. Terms and conditions laid out to present us with the challenges. I stood, "Challenge accepted!" fists struck against our chests and to swear the knight's oath! I first bought a 1962 Mercury Meteor, light blue, and had a killer sound system.

Transformations in musical choices, clothes, what to do on the weekends all settled into what would allow me to see the world in a new light. Different perspectives transformed ideas, prospered in growth, developed attitude, and new mannerisms when I started getting into underground Hip-Hop. Not this rap and B.S. music. You will understand if you are old school and "back-in-the-day" underground.

Groups like Public Enemy, Big Daddy Kane, Beastie Boys, KRS-One, Eric B, and Rakim, EPMD, GangStarr, Nas, Mobb Deep, NWA, and Ice Cube and Easy E's solo stuff, Brand Nubian, A Tribe Called Qwest, Native Tongues, on and on, wow! I could form a list that could go on, from 3rd Bass, Kwame, Poor Righteous Teachers, Tupac and Biggie, Leaders of the New School, Bussa Bus! Ultra-Magnetic MCs, Sugar Hill Gang. Then, came lyrical intricacies, complexities, and blunted influences of lyrical masterpieces through soundscapes of new production, The Pharcyde, Hieroglyphics, Freestyle Fellowship, Saafir, and the Hobo Junction, UBC, Future Sound, and so many other real underground Hip Hop MCs! Then, Wu-Tang entered the scene and wow, a game changer! 36 Chambers!

The discovery of Hip Hop led to new aspirations in life and began as I learned every song's lyrics, formed imageries from the poetry and intricate, complex sentence structures. Not just the recital of rhymes, but the meanings and progressions of how to change up and switch to the rhythm patterns. I became educated by knowledge of Hip-Hop, which conscious MCs taught common sense and ideologies in lyrical techniques from various cultural perspectives, and relatable understandings. However, there was the rebellious protest to incite provocative thought, methods to a conscious understanding about what happened from the cultural perspective, related to what had happened or was happening to me, at various stages in my life.

Far more educationally proficient as a learning instrument to teach and structure my young mind. Accept the added purpose and intent through value of the personal meaning and importance of a progressive lifestyle for change. The outlook from these perspectives and how to overcome adversity, hardships, and challenges. All present in Hip Hop music. The self-expression was the key to every artist and group's diversity. Those outlooks were relatable identities comparable in a way no one who was not in my position would understand or be able to accept. Immersed as soon as I was handed my first cassette, Public Enemy's 'It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold us Back'!

Students were being spoon fed illusions to become the next famous athlete, super model, politician, or future intellect. My path was clear. The aspirations to develop my lyrical ability and perform Hip Hop. A future goal and obsession. Dad told me one day, "I don't know if you have ever considered it, but you will never be able to do this because you are white." Eh, like I listened.

Dad's belief in that time was the misconception of someone who lacked an open mind of free thought and acceptance of other cultural perspectives and spiritual realities. He became indoctrinated through in his belief system, and I broke free from the chains of limitation and illusion. My notebooks penned with lyrical, poetic inceptions; little known to me it directed a future in production and recording the releases of my original material.

Senior year found me with the label of rapper instead of punk skater. Stereotypical judgments and restriction from most teachers and the administration sector, "This student is not worth the time for development and nurture or one who would become a productive member of the collegiate academic environment." At least that was the impression I received from their abundant level of attention placed towards other students and not on me.

Two people believed in me, my drama teacher, and the school's counselor, I will say that much for those two people in my life. Those two people were highly influential and responsible for purpose. Mrs. Johnson and (apologies for the head injury I cannot remember my school counselor's name) my high school counselor, encouraging as my dram teacher. I never knew or pushed myself to accept I could have received a scholarship or grants in acting and drama for my future. It turns out, I could have gone to college and reached higher levels of education.

I felt like being the class clown with the rebellious attitude would keep me from any potential. However, since being a decent performer, my unfortunate decision was to... forget the public educational system. It felt as though the system was meant only for those students with a certain family name and community reputation, athletic or academic mind. Higher education was meant for families who had more money than other members of the community (except I never even realized the talent I possessed as a drama student and performer, which Mrs. Johnson and the counselor always spoke of, but I did not understand at the time). Should I had listened? Was I a distracted kid? Absolutely!

As high school experiences progressed, the collective continued in their daily school routines. The bees buzzed through the hive or the herds to the shepherds, students out to impress with good grades and good behavior. My friends and I were in rebellious opposition. Our class schedules afforded the ability to leave school grounds and take on wild ambitions. Our first stop was always the small corner gas station and our soda pop supply.

Afterwards, we gathered our towels for a daily trip to the natural hot springs. Small wood platforms constructed paths and formed a large tub, which allowed us to enjoy the hot Sulphur waters near Utah Lake. It was a quiet spot, hidden in the middle of the swampy stank and inside the cover of thick reeds and thorny trees. It was near the old Saratoga resort that closed years ago. There were old farms, a run-down park, and the old boat harbor where the dilapidated boats parked at the dock looked like they were about ready to sink right there in the harbor.

Upon our walk to the end of the path, and certain times of the day, others would arrive looking for trouble. Newcomers were shapely beautiful females who acted shy, at first. Appeared only to show their interest in being in the hot springs and their t-shirts or others in bathing suits. That was the beauty of the façade. Not too much time passed before the older girl's tops removed, along with the rest of their clothes. Soon, willingly naked in their spectacular goddess form!

Our sodas spiked with that deplorable liquor Everclear the pure grain alcohol. Without inhibitions from our fill of liquid courage. At night, our skin reflective of the orange glow from the candles placed in various places around the edge of the steam, slowly rising from the hot springs. The time when the walls came down, and familiarity was the mood; love was in the air. Those couples who looked for more than the usual 'soak time' discovered during their visits to the hot springs wandered into the moonlight.

Pairs would sneak into the cover of the tall reeds and brush. Involved personal experience, more preferably than just one young lady would go with their choice where it was typical to be on a bed of makeshift reed blankets, entangled with a couple beauties. Those "Hot Pot" days and nights both familiar and memorable I can recall since youth being where we explored various escapades.

Another first of high school experiences took place with the loss of my hallucinogenic virginity with a scary beastly lady named LSD. A friend approached. I stood at my locker before the last class of day was about to start, "Colby, look what I got from a friend."

His hand held a plastic bag. Inside, were two small squares of paper, "What is it?"

He replied, "Acid." A term I had never heard used to describe a piece of paper. Also, a word that did not carry the best comparisons. Everyone knew the most popular term for the use of the word acid was a chemical used to dissolve and eat away materials, such as wood, metal, and burn and scorch flesh.

Images in mind was that it was an offer, "What is it supposed to do?" which of course it sparked my curiosity.

"About thirty minutes after taking it, people start to see images and feel things never experienced or can ever be imagined."

"It is not the type of acid that burns or dissolves metal?"

His smile revealed my inexperience, "Of course not, dude. You don't think I would give you something like that?" and he was a friend who both of us had passed a doobie on other days.

"How do we take it?" It didn't take long to be intrigued by the idea of seeing and feeling things I had never felt before. A first time for everything, right?

"Here," handed me a piece, "just place it on your tongue." Both of us placed the small tabs of paper on our tongues.

"I'm going to ditch out on class," I returned the books inside my locker.

"Me too," without a second thought, just left school, headed home.

Safe at home base, in my basement bedroom, the first moments of the experience started on the bed. After a short nap, I woke to a strange pulsating warmth. Comfort moved through my arms and legs. The ceiling patterns of the wood shifted and slithered in strange snake-like formations across the ceiling.

Cause for concern, "What is happening to me?"

Most experiences with alcohol were a comfort, with no reason to fear what the results would be. Alcohol had never made me feel what I felt or started to see. The difference between alcohol and LSD do not require comparison, unless, you have only consumed alcohol and never taken acid. Perhaps never done either one. There might be explanation needed. So, there is more to elaborate.

Between the wood ceiling patterns of snakes and my body's levitation from the bed, I recalled, "Oh no, today is the day to mow grandma's lawn." I sat up and looked down at my clothes, toward the blue colorations of jeans, just like an ocean! Far below currents pushed the white caps of the waves across the vast sea of jean material.

The carpet became a red river of ups and down motions and flowed in a steady current. Rocks and driftwood below the water's surface.

There was no able reason how to explain this occurrence, "Oh, hell, how is this happening?" Confusion, disbelief, fear, and the sense of urgency to mow the lawn had consumed my mind.

Somehow, I must make it to grandma's house, mow the lawn, "All right, pull yourself together and get it done. You will be fine." The course of events to make it to her house all seemed easy enough. Find my ten speed, leaned on the side of the house, check. Ride the bicycle to grandma's house, check. Pull the lawn mower from the shed, fill the gas tank with the gas can, check. Mow the lawn, after, return home, check. Easy enough, check, check, check.

It felt my mind echoed the words out loud, "Am I talking out loud?" Words reverberated with a buzz in my ears. The bed felt like a small vessel that bobbed up and down, tossed across the ocean's waves. I stood and tried to gain composure, left the room. Any ability to walk straight was pointless. It was a constant struggle to stretch each rubbery leg and move each one to the area ahead of the other.

Finally, after what felt like hours had passed, mere seconds, I was able to place my hands on the doorframe — now surrounded in a hallway labyrinth between snakes behind me and an exit to the stairway ahead. Freedom from this dungeon. Upon arrival at the bottom of the stairs, a new challenge. The stairs started to move in an upward, escalator, motion, all uneven in every way.

I swayed from left to right, "What is with everything looking like it's floating on an ocean?" I spoke out loud, again. Plus, there would be no way to complete this physical challenge in my current condition. I would need to move slow, use caution, or face becoming trapped in the dagger-like, razor sharp carpet's teeth.

My legs navigated the stairs, while my arms and hands pressed firmly against the designs on the walls. Such nice designs get ahold of yourself. Making it to the side door, it opened. Luckily, I adjusted to the outside conditions with ease, no bright sun to blind my eyes. But the metal handle seemed to melt as it twisted into place. Weird.

The next leg of this journey was to navigate a ten-speed bicycle while the mind contemplated all the meanings of life, how birds and airplanes remained in mid-air flight, or how to appear like any other law-abiding citizen, but, on acid. It was somewhat of a wonder to suddenly find my feet on each bicycle peddle. Successfully able to travel along the road, as close to the sidewalk as possible. The first few blocks were a cakewalk. Make a left, head straight. I recognized it was already too much to process.

Lehi's Main Street seemed particularly deserted, and aside from a couple insects and birds that whizzed by, I was the only person. Not a moment later, just after I had crossed Main street, the next wave of hallucinations swept inside the mind and manipulated the body. Unfortunately, for me, I was still only halfway to my destination. Soon, the bicycle's handlebars and peddles twisted and shifted in multiple directions. My hands slipped from the bars, and my feet rubbed across the ground.

Frustration from this confused state left me in a predicament, "What am I supposed to do?" I jumped, threw the bike to the ground, and stared at the rocks and small pebbles spread across the asphalt. Should I walk the bike the rest of the way or, turn back, head for home base?

"Hello, little pebbles and rocks. Do you think you could help me lift my bicycle and make it to grandma's house?"

"Sure, Colby. We would be happy to help," rocks and pebbles aren't supposed to answer.

Small rocks and pebbles shared more than happy to take some time out of their day and help a boy in need, "What else are we going to do? Lay around." The small rocks, pebbles, and I found ourselves in a joyful outburst of joint laughter and amusement. Happy and grateful to be in each other's company.

"I would be happy to join you, and we could just lay around?" almost ready to sprawl across the road.

"No, thanks, remember you have to mow that lawn," they were right, of course. And before I knew it, I had become swept up and away to the front of grandma's house. Dropped off, by a large wave of pebbles and rocks swept by, "Have fun and, please, Colby, be careful the lawnmower!"

I waved, "I sure will little rocks and pebbles," after the bicycle was leaned against the brick wall, "look at those red colored bricks and their designs and patterns."

I went ahead and gassed up the lawn mower and, with a yank of the handle, was well on my way. I was feeling much better and in more control. The peaks of hallucinations seemed to settle. I continued to mow away at the backyard, "This is much better." Grandma's house was a familiar comfort zone. No need to feel paranoia of an unsettled feeling something negative was about to happen.

About twenty minutes into the experience, it felt as though people's eyes peered through the fence. The red fence had spaces between each board. One board spaced on each side of the fence structure. It's hard to describe with precision, in this state of mind, so onward. Were there people that watched me and knew about the situation, "What is he doing here?" did they hear me? Were they watching?

"It doesn't seem like he should be in the backyard, especially not with a lawn mower," the fence constructed with wood, gaps in between the horizontal boards. I remember already thinking that. Thoughts started to repeat, and I became distracted. There was a way for people to peek through the fence and see who I was and what was going on.

"Apparently," I called out, "I am mowing the lawn!" seconds later. I realized to yell that out loud would draw unwanted attention.

I was worried about a neighbor's reports about my bizarre and unruly actions. That would concern any onlooker about my state of mind. Birds were landing on the fence, squawked their foreign remarks, then flew away and abandoned me. This time I whispered, "thanks, birds." Friendly bees floated by in slow motion and moved on to their busy bee work. However, the hornets and yellow jackets were more aggressive.

Each one buzzed a little too close for comfort, "Please, leave me alone," to know they carried painful stingers, Bzzzz, bzzzz, zzzzzz...

As I turned to mow another section of lawn severe confusion returned. All sections of mowed grass, only seconds ago, had already grown back. Any possibility to effectively mow this lawn was now an impossibility, "How in the world is this possible?" I spoke out loud, to myself, again!

There was only one solution to avoid more confusion: leave, let the hallucinations pass, and recover from this hellacious drug. Return the lawnmower to the shed, go home, and make a phone call later that afternoon. My explanation was, "I had started to mow the lawn, and during my work, I felt sick," not bad. As a young kid, to fake being sick was a temporary solution to most problems if I could pull it off.

What felt like hours later, the last task was to return the lawn mower to the backyard shed. Next, to ride the bike home. Another ride home, get home and make it into my bed. I woke in my bed without the slightest idea where I was or how I had arrived home — a most unsettled moment. The main reason was to conceal being on a drug, under the influence of lady LSD, for the first time. Calm down, learn to enjoy this.

After the experience in and out of control, inside and outside my body, out of my body and mind, without being able to function and the words shouted out loud, being on acid and all attempts to ride a bicycle, was enough for me. I had attempted to mow a lawn with a piece of equipment that could have easily cut off a toe, half a foot, or finger, a hand... well... that was likely the first, last, and only time I would ever take LSD. It was later that night when my body and mind were finally able to return to a stable condition. Was that the ring of a telephone and did I recall and agree to attend a high school sports event that evening?

It was on my bed when the phone rang once more. After multiple rings, it was clear I remained alone in the house, "Hello?" I answered the phone.

"Colby, this is grandma."

"Oh, hello, I came down to mow the lawn and started to feel sick."

"Well, I wondered because the lawn has a few zig zags and rows that are out of line."

Yeah, I peaked on LSD! I had to rationalize my words, "I just came home and laid down,"

"Good, I was a little worried; are you feeling better?"

I thought the game was up, "A little. But I think I will have to finish the lawn, after school, tomorrow."  
"You might stay home from school if you do not feel better tomorrow?"

"Maybe, I will see how I feel," I answered.

"Well, get plenty of rest and drink your fluids," Grandma always tried to show concern and support all her kids and grandkids with helpful advice.

"Thanks, grandma."

"All right talk to you soon. I hope you feel better soon, Colby."

After a successful conversation, I sat up only to feel like a freight train had run me down. Very unpleasant, when the phone rang again, "Colby, do you still feel it?" it sounded like my friend.

"Is this you..."

"Yeah," he said, but the tone of his voice sounded warped.

It had to be him, "I was tripping hard!" as I explained the entire experience, only to receive laughter in return.

"Well, let's get out and go to the game."

"Football game?"

"Yeah, a football game. Let's go!"

"All right."

"We'll be there in about twenty minutes to pick you up."

"See you, then." I hung up the phone, left a note on the end of the kitchen table, and went to the game that night with my friends.

All we discussed during the football game was our experiences on acid, and my friend also mentioned he gave a full hit to another person. We were able to laugh off our fears, the horror from the hallucinations, but this was only after the fact. However, we both did not understand there would be the following day's repercussions from my friend giving a girl a full hit of acid.

It was about seven a.m., I mom woke me, "Colby, some man is out front and needs to speak with you," mom stood over my bed.

"Who?" everything was a blur from woken up so early.

"A man I have never seen. He did not mention his name, get your clothes on, and go to the door. You have school in an hour, unless, you still do not feel well. Grandma told me you did not feel good."

"No, I still feel a little sick to my stomach."

"Well, go to the door and talk to this man. He mentioned something about someone at school who gave his daughter drugs," my stomach fell to the floor and churned.

All that I could imagine was police cars parked outside and this whole event a major debacle. I reached the front door. As our discussion started and managed to look out in the car, I saw his daughter. I knew her well as our conversation continued, "I am not sure who had the drugs or any names and wasn't the one who gave it to her."

He seemed rational, "That's what my daughter said. If you could give me a name or any information?" spoke in a calm manner.

"I would if I knew who had it. I could give you the name of the person it might have been. That might not have been the person that gave it to her. That person would be in trouble for doing something they didn't do." At the time, the explanation sounded decent. The father shook his head, had seemed to accept it, then left. That was that. Somehow, I even managed to stay home from school that day. Since, I have never been in a relationship with lady LSD, again, ever!

Throughout insecurity with my congenital disability, a good example of the results would be my undeveloped social abilities and depersonalization with people. Birth defect, insecurity, keep it secret, avoid close and personal social interactions, this included what it meant to give or receive love. To live in fear of interactions with others or develop a close relationship with anyone whom I was unsure of their intentions.

I hardly shared any personal situations with people — no means of self-expression other than personal progressions formed through life. I had always been a class clown because it was a means of deflection from unwanted attention or deeper connection. One who always saw humor as the tool in all situations to distract others from my abnormal physical stomach features. To any questions about my weakness, the congenital disability.

Jokes and humor became a means to settle confrontations and manage avoidance for social value and meaningful relationships. It was the rational, who would keep a focus on my explanation of a birth defect when one or more individuals share rounds of laughter if I told jokes? That was my ability to avoid real emotion, display of feelings, avoid personal connections. The process of control over what I had no control of, so to cause these humorous distractions became easier than real social connections. Thus, my interest to entertain others became part of my life. Drama and acting in school plays was a huge interest.

I played large roles in my favorite plays, to this day. In Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer's Night Dream,' I played the role of "Puck." A mischievous trickster character in the world between reality and fantasy. Me, Puck Everlasting, as Rachelle would consider proper term of art. It was the perfect part for a joker like me and would remain because I continue to realize characteristic correlations between my behavior in life and the work of the character's development.

The next play was a role in 'Arsenic and Old Lace.' Now, if you had the opportunity to see this play or watch the movie, you might think the part of Mortimer Brewster, the comedic role I would cast. However, my drama teacher, the play's director, thought it would be a twist to cast me in the role of Johnathan Brewster. Johnathan is the disfigured prodigal son' of the two aunts, and Mortimer's brother, the killer!

With a disfigured face, he had turned to a life of crime where Mortimer was the town's golden boy. The role was a challenge because it was the first time explore a darker side of the human mind, and place fear into the mind of the audience, even those involved in the play were fun to frighten. It was unfortunate not to continue the path and pursue a future in acting. Something I never chose to pursue after my high school years. I had a real talent and unique manner, in the grasp on the portrayal of a character, also through memorization of the amount of lines in the plays. I was soon to discover another more personal and meaningful path. High school graduation achieved and survived by the skin of my teeth!

Lost then Found?

It felt the experiences and memories of elementary school, middle school, and high school were the years that reflect we fought more among ourselves. The teachers and principal were us, just students, at a different stage in life. Adults reflected on each of their lives and used instructions for guidance over younger generations. We structured information in the course of our strategy to learn who we were becoming.

The reality of it all came down to project their truth belief and ideas on how their students should behave, act, and grow. Become more like adults and how each should achieve more than what they were able to do in their own lives. Apply the pressure inside a melting pot and see what churns out on the other side. We knew how to fit in with society's rules, regulations, and laws. I slid between the separation of those academic students who had intellectual abilities to reach their full potential, and the athletic students in their opportunities for sports, in the pursuit of a college education.

All the rest became those students who would move on after graduation and obtain simple jobs. The school staff, assigned, to use their experience and categorize the standards of each student's performance, interest or ability, and final grades. Next, point them in the right direction. Those who had no plans and direction, goals, or the course to take, discovered we had not yet decided where each of us belonged in life.

School ended for me, but it will always remain in jaded memories, warped experiences, personal grievances, and wonderful times, to share for the rest of my days. There are times, since, I've felt like the child born of a broken down and failed educational system. All because of the fact the other species in the herds of cliques run together, like bad clichés. Be that as it may, those of us who managed to make it through these years with our minds intact, from a broken educational system, with an organized method of sanity must unlearn, relearn, and rebuild. To become the future educational leaders who teach to others what we have become to know, with truth knowledge, evidence-based facts, and teach life skills necessary to survive in the real world.

Assemble what's left of our lives to find a goodness and meaning, to instruct and guide truth and hope into the future of other people's lives. All the trauma, stress, and confusion brought on through humiliation and hatred of people who I never stood up to, or never fought back against, those who broke me down, caught up with me. After years of berated with verbal degradation, physically pushed around, verbally, and physically assaulted throughout my youth, there was no avoidance to enter a void of depressed states in emotional confusion. There was not a single individual I knew or trusted, with a capable understanding, for the gravity of the situation.

In those years, people never spoke openly about how they felt, being sad, alone, or lonely, feelings of betrayal, confused, and emotionally overwhelmed with no answers. Certainly, we never expressed any interest or empathy in other people's interests and feelings for solutions to problems and support systems. It only took two years after high school graduation to reach the point I felt broke, mentally exhausted, without any reason why. Not happening all in one moment, the buildup took time to boil up, and internally grow to a large emotionally internalized ticking clock, on a countdown to explode.

I sought out fun and self-expression in various role models. I continued to struggle at home and in my personal life between two parents who stopped loving each other, the shit in school, and a life that wasn't much of a life, as I saw for potential or with a future. Apathy, who doesn't or just never admits it? It teetered on moments of happiness, a father remarried with his new family, my mother working two to three jobs and life in between. There were good times and moments of potential. I looked up to my uncle Vaughn who was a role model and hero in my eyes. A person who went out and achieved his goals, someone that had direction in life.

He joined the army, and after his service returned home to take me to a couple minor league hockey games. After that, he showed me his favorite types of music, gun safety, and shared interest in hunting, trapping, and soon joined the police force. With my birth defect, the qualifications to join the military or law enforcement was out of the question, because of the lack of my ability to pass the physical requirements — no chance at the dream of becoming an Air Force pilot or ever going into space. I loved shooting guns at targets and, soon, found interest in a pawn shop selling an inexpensive .22 caliber pistol.

I found out why the price was so low. It was a weapon most call the "Saturday Night Special." It is cheap, used a couple times, and tossed, because it is cheap. Upon my first firearm purchase and experience in an open field, the gun always misfired, jammed, repeatedly. It was clear this was a gun used to intimidate, through someone pulling it out and waved it around, or carried to feel a sense of protection.

If there was ever a scenario for use in self-defense or a type of spur of the moment situation, 50/50 chance the weapon ever capable to fire a reliable shot. I don't even recall the manufacturer's name. One year later and enough money saved, another pistol caught my eye. I bought a .357 magnum. Not for the intent and purpose, I would later find myself in. Only that it was the right size, caliber, and looked plain cool as a Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, or any detective style gun used in television series I loved to watch. You know, Johnny Depp in 21 Jump Street!

After months of use with my new weapon, and to discover myself in a comfortable position with the revolver, an unexpected connection occurred. I became caught in the years of emotional struggle, confusion, and loss of hope. Not capable of an effective ability to manage coping abilities with my outlook on life's current situation. I would say it was around 1993 or 1994. I can say that it was never because of the gun being there. It was never any method to conduct a plan of this type; the results achieved one way or another, to play out the end game. I have shared this moment with only a couple of close friends, so many of you might find this surprising to discover, but it was a low point in my life where I made the right choice. The choice for survival and to live.

On a late night, alone in the house, all the ingredients were in place for a potentially disastrous result. Emotions, frustration, a gun, and a box of bullets. No alcohol, no drugs, or music involved, just me sitting on the edge of the bed. I emptied the bullets from the box. One by one, each loaded shell inserted into the openings of the cylinder. A single bullet would have proved enough to follow through with what my emotional rage had in store. In the moment, all plans of any future were obsolete and enough to press the loaded gun against my temple. Tears streamed down the sides of my cheeks with the thoughts of all life's memories, both bad and good, rushed through my mind.

The reality of the situation was not in the first action, raise the gun to the side of my head, but it was the second choice. My thumb pulling back the hammer. The sound of a single rotational click while the cylinder twisted into place and prepared the bullet and hammer to a perfect alignment. My finger slid into place on the trigger. My mind paused to make its final decision to send one last signal to the index finger's muscles to retract, and it would all end... Boom!

Through my humiliation, emptiness inside, and the sadness I could have used drugs. In the middle of it all, a course of resolve, a whisper in thought form, "To give up is not the solution. You are stronger than this, better than what you are about to do, think..." I had a moment of weakness, but I knew I was stronger than that and still am.

I lowered my hand and fell to the floor, shaking and trembling. In mind, came the images of those who would find me dead in my bedroom. My final decision and the last choice I made in my life. It would have left all those to wonder what led me to pull the trigger? Why would he do this and not come to us and ask us for help? One who has never been in that state of mind or complete and utter disgust of life and the world, will never completely understand. I reached the point to lose my hope, joy, happiness completely, and any meaning for a positive outlook, or future place in this life.

How could it ever be so bad? The reasons become so complicated and overwhelming, nothing in that moment or after, holds value or purpose in an outlook to continue and live life. Those feelings can pass, and thankfully, I know. Understand, you are not alone, never, alone. You may feel lonely, in a moment, but are never truly alone. All it takes is to walk away, open the door and walk to a family member, loved one, walk to the nearest home, or call a friend, pick up the phone and call anyone. Contact emergency services to explain your situation, accept and admit, "Help me," because you and I are strong enough inside to make it through anything and whatever we feel is leading us to a helpless and hopeless moment.

The importance is relevant to where I was, what had happened to me, and how the correlations led to the moment. Most importantly, why I am who I am and what has become accomplished in my life. Truth told I was there and, anyone can be at any time. I was able to make it through, been there two other times to find myself in thought, contemplation, but never follow through to where I was in that moment. Because I know there is someone there for me. Even if it doesn't feel like it, in that moment, I know. I am not in that place anymore. You should know that because people will be there for you, care and love you, there is always someone there for you.

Life is a struggle. Every day can be a difficult challenge. One day at a time is a good start. Life is wonderful and a splendid place, filled with great moments to soak in and cherish. Share and embrace those moments with others, with each other, and every time there is a moment to experience sit back and see that moment for what it is... life. A constant roller coaster of emotional ups and downs but remember there will be major drops downward and, soon, the great feeling of the ups, if you work through life and give it a chance. I have made so many wrong choices; I don't understand how I am still here, and still alive. To share this life with any courage and strength, to admit what happened and come from the other side in the lowest point of human weakness. I do not get how I am still alive, but I am living each moment, with you.

Life is a long road full of ups and downs. The path we take, and emotions are always changing. I should have talked more with my parents, my family, and friends, and it might have been different? It was never something people spoke about or faced back then, even now. What happened remained bottled up for a long part of my life. Life, as I grew up, filled with secrets, bitterness from myself and others around me, remained behind closed doors and mostly never heard or discussed because it was uncomfortable. I wonder if times will change. My parents did the best they could. Never encouraged me to further my education, but never held me back, either, which is something I have often regretted. It was my choice to make and what to make of my life.

Come to think, not once did my parents step in when I joined little league baseball, bought that bicycle, heard about my stunts, rode my skateboard, or started to build that half pipe in the back yard! Most of the time, even though there were extensive warnings in place, "you could need dialysis for the rest of your life, a kidney transplant, more surgery, or die," my parents gave me the chance to test the boundary and learn limitations on my own.

My parents allowed a certain amount of space so I would learn it was the one warning I would ever get, but never had to cash in, until later. Like I said, how to escape injury to my kidney or dialysis or a transplant was the mystery that never occurred. I do not understand it. Then again, who can ever understand or explain life? People feel comfort in pretend realizations, levels of assumed information, use the word luck, euphemism, and semantics or the simplest of false equivalence.

I did the only thing possible or probable: survived. Though I don't blame anyone for my poor judgments or anyone else, how could I? All of this was my choice and, each of the decisions I made, mine alone. I do believe that things may have turned out differently for me had I focused on applying to a university instead of to a job as a gas station employee. A college degree or two would have given me the confidence I lacked after high school to pursue the dream that took an extra 20 years to achieve without the degrees I now have? There are still years left and fun to create, people to meet, and new memories to make, with plenty of life left to live.

Music

Music has a major influence in our lives, sparks creativity, and allows forms of self-expression. With the influence of music, I danced and performed flexible breakdance routines with talented friends in clubs and competitions. I started to produce and record my music under the artist name Tangent, from 1993 to around 2006, the shy and reserved introvert became unleased on stage. Just turn up the sound system and give me that microphone! A new identity for recognition, accomplishments, and when it felt safe to be on stage.

An awesome opportunity in my life where I was able to travel. The chance to visit various places on road trips, plane flights to the west and east coast, and everywhere in between. There were concerts to attend and festival events, such as live performances and friends to visit. A chance to meet new people and friends. The most beautiful regions of the places I got to visit were the Bay area, San Francisco, Oakland, and San Diego, Arizona, Idaho, Colorado, Nevada, New York, and the surrounding states, especially Massachusetts. All places in between and up and down the west coast, just scenic and wonderous!

Moments that altered the mind, both outrageous and dangerous, joyful, and unbelievably profound in ways never believed possible. There were extended days of travel in the southwest, the four corners of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, and in between the fields of corn and farmlands of the states in the heart of the American country. I never made it to the southern states, a place I long to visit. Other moments, through encounters with the opposite species, would not prove much positive results in the way of good or clear intention.

My Hip Hop music continued to peak and fulfil desires in self-pursuits and development through live performances. I remember the rumors of a Utah dance club. It was all the rage and the place to be for those over a certain age who attended for weekend entertainment. The most we had as teenagers were school dances and local youth dances, both of which supervised by adults. My first night in the club was remarkable. After that, and in the years to follow, would prove to be fruitful in the growth of experience and challenges.

I soon developed and improved my ability in all lyrical areas of talents and skills that I could present on a microphone and the stage. My friends and I learned the latest in all breakdance techniques through endless practice sessions on the cardboard. We formed our posse, crews, and worked the circles in the "soul room." We saw how the girls watched the dancers and MCs on Yo! MTV Raps (when MTV played music videos), and BET's 'Rap City' live performances and in the videos. We imagined the possibilities from our chances to become big time hip-hop stars and took it inside the club and parking lot after hours. Our curiosity and desires piqued to pursue the opportunity.

I remember when our groups pulled into the parking lot on a Saturday night. A line of people stretched from the front entrance, "Looks packed?" hundreds who waited to pay their five buck cover to get inside.

"More action," my hormonal friends exclaimed. Others slapped hands and exchanged those inside shakes between each other. It was at this point, a transitional phase from high school friends to post-graduation acquaintances. From the looks of it, so far, not a bad choice of company for a young man in my position and state of mind.

For me, ready to take on the world with big dreams and aspirations. It wasn't long before I met new acquaintances, friends, and formed alliances for future endeavors. Like-minded individuals, as we progressed from high school days to form new bonds and remain in clicks with like-minded ideas, beliefs, and styles of dress. No exact purpose in mind but to chill, hangout, and get inside a club to perform in 'the circle' and hit 'the "mic.'

There were times we would try out new rhymes we had wrote, freestyle without memorized lyrics, and face battle competition from other MCs who challenged us on 'the mic.' Music encompasses reason, self-expression, and various definition of form and improvisation. We developed our Hip Hop stylings into become one of Utah's first well known and recognized underground hip hop group.

We performed our original music and dance routines and musical compositions of lyrical freestyle expressions, unlimited dance moves. Also continued to advertise and attract quite a diverse and local crowd at out gigs under the name Numbs. Successful on a local scale. Like any collective, there became a common shared vision and mission, or in certain cases being too young and dumb, full of emotional complications and ego, our personalities collided. It happens, and people move on.

I ended up with the decision to pursue a solo endeavor, under the MC name, Tangent. It soon became the opportunity to reach out and start new networks and a chance at developed interests from record labels. There were 'close encounters' with the opposite sex, house parties, back road travels to remote locations, or interstate travels to out of state music festivals. Years passed to have opened in various venues for Run DMC, De La Soul, Coolio, and The Gap Band, and continued underground venues to open for underground Hip Hop acts from across the country. Good times had when I open for an up and coming band, Royal Bliss regularly. Good friends, good people around, and good times, that's for sure! Royal Bliss continued to jam, were signed, and still tour to this day!

Once again, I was now able to move creatively in a new positive and progressive direction. I found myself in the desert, to spend consecutive years at Burning Man. Not a bad course of adventures to meet new friends and unique people of like mind. All up to the point where it developed into an overpriced institutional organization of commerce. Only interested in higher ticket prices, fees, and vehicle charges to obtain entry. Burning Man had turned on itself like Timothy Leary's acid trip days had ended. It was the point when I heard, "What happens at Burning Man stays at Burning Man," the event had become a cliché.

It had become a place where rich tech savvy and weekend party types would become wannabe desert hippy rats for a week. An excuse for certain types of people to drink, drug, and party naked at raves. There were still the original burners from the early 1998 and 1999 years but, later, once the event reached 40,000 to 60,000 in attendance, the look changed. An official brand name, Burning Man. The event still goes on, higher ticket prices, more excuses to raise yearly prices, and even bigger crowds. When I first attended, I believe the price was $90 and 15,000 to 20,000 people would show up. Now there are up to 70,000 people in attendance. Too much.

Being a solo artist and musician allowed for me to make personal choices, my own decisions, and strike out further in future endeavors. I became the decision maker. The rise or fall was on my shoulders and I worked hard in the spread of my music and distribution across the nation and even the globe. Soon I was picked up on a small distribution label called Land Speed Records. The journey took me all the way to receiving a phone call from a major record label. At first, I answered my cell phone and thought it was a prank call. Until the call became a reality and it was the chance for my first major Hip Hop record contract with Universal Records.

However, my resources and performance contact tour capabilities limited, without the connections of a manager, agent, and the financial resources and connections to tour the states, it all fell short after the first years. A record label wants results from tour attendance, merchandise sales, crowd response and reaction, artist recognition, and radio airplay. Except, without payola, backed by a major producer, and being an independent artist without social media, and all the other internet resources, recognition, and advertising was difficult as a one-person operation. I worked so hard and put in a ton of hours and time. The primary focus, in pursuit of attempts to achieve my dream. The goal of what I set out to see myself achieve.

In between all the hustle and bustle, thoughts returned to Boston, Massachusetts, and New England. My senses fell in love with New England. On the other hand, major record labels are interested in artists who is out on tour, constantly on the road, and attracts airplay, listeners, which equal sales and more money for record label. Enormous numbers of ticket sales and merchandise sales, record plays on chart statistics, and artist development results equals a better chance at a recording contract. The label wants to see potential for financial returns on finances invested in a potential artist they are interested to sign a record deal.

I moved to the Boston Massachusetts area with a new romance in bloom, what was endless possibilities and newfound energy. The New England area has a special place in my heart. The coastline, lighthouses, Salem, scenic bridges, and other Boston locations, Red Sox! Also, the historical location of where a nation was born. All the sensational architecture of the houses and buildings, with a people of a unique sense for work and wicked good times! Soon after a couple performances in the most unpleasant places, the East coast did not offer artistic return or creative interests from the efforts I put forth in clubs and venues.

Focus was on earning a living, weekends, and production of new tracks. Not that a lack of focus or intention was an issue. Once again, the discovery for those who do not want to support an unknown hip hop artist, freshly implanted from out of state, "We'll put you on stage for a weekday show and see how it goes."

No major hip hop acts had come through the Boston area and to wait, with enthusiasm, becomes difficult. I romped through places in the tri-state area, New York, with all the hustle and bustle of endless nights and crowded streets during the daytime. I needed to become an opening act and get picked up on a tour and secure a music festival opportunity. Keep touring hopes alive which lacked any steam, gain steady radio play, or continue to find other avenues.

Our relationship found us on the move to the west coast and settled in with our roots planted in San Diego. Music interests were all coming up short, without the major presence of internet and social media. Only limited FM radio interest, all mostly college AM radio play and no media coverage for my continued efforts. It is tough to get your music played when radio stations only listen to major label releases, and hardly listen to independent music, especially with no internet or social media platforms.

A relationship can find rocky roads, become complicated which it did, and soon the two of us were on the out. A personal choice where my partner wanted an open relationship, and I didn't. Of course, ended in a failed relationship and the decision to leave San Diego. Back on the road, and another return for home, to Utah. All recollection of the events during my hip hop days, from about 1989 to 2005 were mostly sex, drugs, and hip hop — not a good combination when substances like drugs used in combination. I never used heroin, cocaine, pills, never smoked crack or PCP, or hard drugs. I enjoyed the moments in hallucinogenic mushrooms, weed, but found comfort in alcohol.

I had limited capability to cover every specific memory from blurred recollections of little care and decadent indecency. It was debauchery and degradation in most cases. I have regrets and made multiple mistakes because I'm human. My focus is not to ruminate on using that as a further excuse not to continue to try harder. Focus on the positive. What I started to discover was I never placed a focus on progression toward the betterment for my self-identity, a personal focus for my physical and mental health, and a lack of self-awareness.

Never had any kids, not sure if I could but not for lack of trying. All of it, enlightenment, and a journey, but more in the service of others or another relationship ahead. Something authentic came with artistic creativity, achievements. However, to not live in the moment and feel or let go of the pain, regrets, guilt, and the past, I turned to alcohol in moments when I needed it the most — used more alcohol when the emotions surfaced and to deny those emotions and feelings. I placed little focus on myself, my state of emotional being, or how I was coming along and being in the moment of a healthy state of mind.

That is a fuzziness I remembered because I would either perform, break dance, or become caught up in lyrical battles with other MCs and smoke lots and lots of mad weed. Get blitzed and buzzed from alcohol and sleep the rest of the day away. Like I said, at this point in my life, it surprised me to be alive. A revelation to come out on the other side. I chose to move from the creative vibes of Hip Hop music and work. Focus on a job and work while creating artistic endeavors through other means of my talents and ability.

After being born into the world, pumped with large dosages of morphine and drugs through my little body's system, correlations with heredity, probable factors of what led to my addictive personality. Please, do not take this the wrong way, no judgements and not saying all drugs are completely negative, BUT used in moderation with responsibility and understanding of consequence, or for medical purposes, or NOT AT ALL. There is no omniscient manner presented before, or after. At least I hope not, and I don't want to be the presenter of dogma, wiggle the finger at your life choices, or the guru for change, that's for sure. People must live and learn for themselves. Life is hard. If I can make it to sobriety and others truly decide and desire to become sober if I did it, so can anyone and that is a hundred percent for sure!

Those who feel an inspirational connection with musical influence, or become involved in the creation of music, often contemplate feelings that involve music's value, meaning, and its profound influence — listeners along with perspectives and how music relates to make the world a better place. For me, and others, people contemplate a profound purpose these instruments and songs play a part as it pertains to a certain time in life, emotions, spark times to process thoughts, behaviors, and emotion. Each instrument plays an influential role in the choice of where to place each sound in the composition, and its contribution to the music of the song.

Music pertains to an ability which can affect each of us and others around us. Those will say a musician or band has changed their life. I believe you have an ability and have always had a power inside you the entire time. You are the one who can change your life, on your own, and that musician or band just happened to be in your life at the time the change occurred. You have all abilities and strengths to make changes in your life; music, a band, a musician, or anyone or anything else, is the precipice where you accept the change, then continue from the first point to change. Give yourself the credit you deserve because you deserve it.

Music is a starting point to initiate and spark change, help process emotion, but when it comes down to the act of work, action, and interaction with yourself, you are the person who takes control and makes the choice for change. Music is a means by which a person can develop their persona and fit in, form an identity, blend in with others, to belong, or remain anonymously invisible. Music influenced by an individual's family upbringing and behavioral determinations such as imprints from other members of society or social groups.

Family influences consistently reinforced through conditioning an empty vessel, from birth and throughout existence, by external sources. Young minds are impressionable, require correct guidance of good, bad, right, or wrong choices and what is, or is not, acceptable — shown the way on their path in the stages of learning and development. Also, trust developed and earned in an exchange of enablement to have acceptance of boundaries. Alike most, forms of meditation and in relaxation consisted of music and at times, a mixture of intoxicating influences at this stage in life.

Certain drugs used in moderation and in safe places, a means to reach euphoria. I can remember highs beyond expectation left with nonfunctional senses. I worked in my headphones, to listen in all forms of musical compositions, productions, the mastering, and mixes of music. When a musician creates, performs, or people listen to experiences music provokes, the results form abilities to create an energy in the soul beyond explanation.

Past recollections are how the sound scape had captured anticipation, and in the experience of a moment, nostalgia, storage of memory, and then to imagine a world without music. Other memory reflects what it was like to share a pleasurable moment with a friend, lover, or partner. In total control over the body and mind, to surrender, while a certain song plays and accept total satisfaction. It is holy, transcendental, and spiritual.

As a young child, first experience of music came through being around adults. One experience was on a drive with dad on a sunny day. The Eagle's "Hotel California" melody begins to play on the radio. The acoustic instruments begun, you might recall the sounds of a harpsichord, acoustic guitar/piano... and the drummer's break into the lyrics of the vocalist. It was in this moment; a child's active imagination envisions the descriptive lonely hotel in the middle of the desert.

You see, my first impression of the song, Hotel California, was that my father and I would become swept through a time warp. Arrive in the isolated desert hotel and soon become trapped. The haunted melodic harmonies and lyrical descriptions of the song forever imprinted in my mind. An imagination runs wild with possibility! The depths and profound synthesis of the song haunts me to this day.

After hearing the song for the first time, and to this day, I have these youthful images branded in my head. Now other musicians and bands have created musical releases that invoke nostalgia. The Carpenters can bring visions and recollections, tie memory to present emotions. I won't lie, Karen's voice and melodic abilities touch on my waiting room visits, holidays, and the Utah mountains. The feel of the arrival of the Fall season and even her versions of Christmas favorites are beyond exquisite!

The simple chord of an acoustic guitar begins to echo its ominous fingering of a song that could only developed by a person who has experienced truly and real emotional intensity in their lives. The simplicity of the guitar chords continues to pleasurable and hypnotic resonances. Reflections of their emotion of helpless innocence one feels when your heart and soul completely crushed or succumbing to a vulnerability and love. Concerts were a unique experience for me. I believe dad took me to my first concert, Styx. Now this was a worthy presentation. I mean at the start of this concert; Styx had the production of their own movie play out the introduction. Mr. Roboto's coming of age! Then the band appears on the stage and blew me away! Wonder and exhilaration, inspiring!

Another concert first was at, Oingo Boingo! What an energetic and awesome spectacle! Ska blended with the spirits of Halloween. Halloween being my favorite holiday and the fall season, which is my favorite time of the year. Another reason I have always held fast to follow Oingo Boingo and Danny Elfman. Then, in 1985, Tim Burton and Paul Reubens invited Danny Elfman to write the score for the film, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure.

Danny Elfman, luckily for him and us, developed a working connection with a favorite artist of mine and creative mind; the ever-fantastic creative mind of Tim Burton, since scored all but three of Burton's major studio release. Elfman and Burton; a pair of Aces! So many concerts, like John Denver, Johnny Cash, Foo-Fighters, Stone Temple Pilots, Alice in Chains, Massive Attack, Portishead, Tricky, Mazzy Star, Natalie Merchant, Norah Jones, Tool, A Perfect Circle, Injected, Nine Inch Nails, Ravi Shankar, George Harrison, Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, and so many others. Music is life!

'til Death Do Us Part

A theory in behaviorist psychology comes through social learning and pertains to operant and classical conditional behavior. Operant conditions form through a result of receiving a reward for positive behavior or consequence as a lack of negative behavior. Perform a positive action and get a positive response, err... find a compatible partner in a relationship, and certain relationships will flourish. In contrast, incompatible partners will not complement each other's environmental behaviors, through yelling, arguments, disagreement, increasing tension, and begin to form negative consequences.

Classical condition behavior comes through environmental stimuli and reward responses of a specific environment, seen through examples set by other people. Couples look at photos of kittens, sunsets, beaches, and other positive imagery and paired with images of our partners. The process either boosts positive feelings towards the partner or in other examples of classical conditioning does not make someone show positivity towards someone whom they dislike.

It might become a belief to follow the examples of other people's lifestyles who we think have a good relationship or happiness occurs by following their example. Examples conditioned throughout comparisons by a certain means to achieve that lifestyle. Guess what, life is not always going to be happy nor relationships. Because if one person does not balance out in the same complimentary sequence, one or the other will most often become less satisfied. The times life will kick you square in the groin. At times, life sucks. Take the good with the bad, there, I said it.

Certain individuals follow the lives of parents, friends, coworkers, movie stars, super models, rock stars, athletes, comedians, artists, authors, politicians, investors, bankers, wall street investors. Recognize and relate with their behavior, because it becomes typical group behavior. Researched behavior, to watch, learn, and discover the patterns, then follow the results of successful patterns called group think. There are the beautiful people, incredibly wealthy, and hundreds of powerful leaders around world populations. They are termed, "Leaders" or "models" of our society, being the foremost influencers who hold a vast influence on most others, who aspire to emulate.

Conclusions for how to achieve the ultimate love, happy life, and live the dream, "This couple has been determined to live the new way of a achieving a happy life," and "look at this couples path to live the perfect relationship and how to become happy." Half-truths and a false belief that happiness will come through their reality and the world they live. Well, it is not the world others live and not how I live. A warning of the reality behind the façade led to see and believe, then find your complimenting form of happiness.

All right, what does all this have to do with love, relationships, marriage, and happiness as it relates with my life? You have your path; I have mine. You live your life; I live mine. Someone sees a person in an abusive relationship, I could have left, but you know they told me over and over, get out, and it sucked. However, I had to make it through the steps and learn. I chose to believe a true relationship was out there, somewhere, waiting for me. I held to patience, hope, honesty, trust, all the other factors that contribute to an open and real relationship with another person. I believed and felt this person who came to me, and I chose, was the one.

Expect or accept, the worst, hope for the best. Saying, "What a coincidence?"

I say no coincidences, like others, have and say, "Happy accidents!"

I married believing she is the one and we would spend the rest of lives sharing all our moments. We could face whatever problems, confront these issues together, overcome, and could focus on the love between us. All right, another mistake, and a blurred decision on my part. You cannot force someone to get help unless that person genuinely wants to seek out help. I did, she did not. She continued to drink and consume alcohol to escape and deny her ability to face emotional distress and past trauma.

After she quit taking her meds for mental illness, the decision was to continue the consumption of alcohol, massive quantities, daily. Most have experienced the means of escaping the real world, our feelings, and facing our emotions through using a substance to live in apathy and denial. I have found coping mechanisms and ways to self-medicate in the worst times of life. We separated and, once again, left with no other choice but to return home, start over and regroup.

I lived in my car, behind a hotel or around town to get by for three weeks and make it out of town alive. Just look around, real close. If you feel the need, stop what you think is the next choice and do the opposite. Take extra time in examination of something a little longer than usual, develop different perspectives as to the meaning, or don't. However, it might not always be a clear path or choice due to classical and operant conditioning in the negative spectrums.

Problem: I made another one of life's mistakes, relapsed, and started to drink, right as I was about to get on the highway. Bad idea, because my car insurance had expired. So, I made the smart choice, a U-turn, and parked the car in the back of a hotel parking lot and slept it off. One day turned into two, and I slept in the car those other nights. The next night turned into five more. Made my way to a cracker barrel, had a huge lunch, and made the purchases of two more bottles of vodka. I returned to a crunched-up position in the backseat of my car, a choice that seemed to be going downhill and fast.

Still, in the back of the hotel parking lot, I struck up a conversation with the night desk clerk, "Hey there," in an exchange of introductions.

The night clerk appeared surprised, considerate, and said, "Thanks for coming in to explain. You know, I completely understand how difficult a position you are in and what you are going through can happen to anyone. I heard someone was sleeping in a car behind the hotel."

For me, his compassionate response made it hard to hold back the tears, "I know this puts you in an inconvenient situation, from my point of view, all of this being my responsibility," completely shamed, embarrassed. Also, to see the situation as being a lack of composure in my ability to keep up my past sobriety.

"You have not caused any trouble, harassed any guests. I recognize you from being a guest here just the other week."

"That was me. I managed to give away or sell off all my possessions, and everything of value or worth taking back to Utah is in my car," explained my intentions to post the car for sale and make it back home.

The response a total surprise, "Here," retrieved a couple supplies, "if you are quick use this key card for the unoccupied room, shower, and shave, then bring back the card." I would never name the establishment or the young man for his kindness, but I did get to shower. My total amount spent was about three weeks in the back of my car. The desk clerk allowed me to use the computer and post my car for sale, through an online advertisement, and sell it.

One problem had been my continued alcohol consumption, the routine of a wasted day spent in the back seat of a car, "life sucks, and this is no way to live." Another one of life's poorest choices, to walk into a supermarket and come out with a box cutter and a 12-pack of cheap beer. Somehow when a person reaches the lowest point in their life, the decisions and choices do not add up with sensible actions or the results of the consequences. The box cutter intended to make short work on my wrists... done, life all fucked up and game over.

I could give a shit less about anything else in the world, and all I had to do was make a phone call. You wouldn't have cared or even noticed at all. No one does. One phone call could have changed my selfish mind. About halfway through the 12-pack, and about to cut up my wrists. A whisper in a comforting voice returned, "To give up is not the solution. You are stronger than this, better than what you are about to do, think...," and I changed my mind. Never did it.

I stopped, broke down, and stumbled to the nearest building, "Selfish and thoughtless bastard. What the hell is the matter with you?" Wherever I managed to make it to, the woman behind the desk froze when I appeared. Darkness closed in around me, and the next voices were from people around me, "Are you there?"

"Can you hear the sound of my voice?" then, darkness.

I was in and out of consciousness in a hospital. Once stable, they transferred me up north, which led to a weeklong stay in a rehabilitation unit. In and out of consciousness, I must have shared my plans with the boxcutter to one of the nurses, a social worker came in, and then off to the behavioral unit for evaluation. In patient care had been my best possibility at this stage, a step back to focus, not only the hospital's evaluation but for my own internal and external view of where it was, I wanted to be in life — the steps needed to point in the right direction.

Another one of the nicest people met on my journey home was the man who bought my car. Once he had offered to pick me up from the rehabilitation center, the man even took me to the DMV for a copy of the registration. Bandaged wrists and all. He made the purchase, I signed over the title, and then even took me to buy luggage. The last surprise was kindly to drop me off at the bus station. Completely unstable and not a care or focus in the world except to make it home. At the ticket counter, I bought the first available bus ticket home.

All after about four weeks in a complete nightmare and, before that, three years of a horrific time bomb of a relationship. Worse and bad, hardly any good, all for that stone to take me down for rock bottom! Hit it, down in the dump and a shit hole, latrine duty would have been a blessing. I still had people who cared about me and worried for my life. A horrible strangle hold trapped in substance abuse and addiction. The only way for me to describe existence in that state, inhuman.

Repetitious cycles of regret, guilt, manic thoughts, and internalization until nothing would silence it but alcohol. No manner to cope, process the emotional states come in wave after wave, thunderous crashes through amounts of profound overwhelming frustration. Exercise and almost make it out of the flood, through small moments of hope. After, more unexpected enraged anger, confused and despondent, emotionally detached and a complete wreck in a depressed state of hopelessness.

Then, a trip back to my home state, once again, in familiar and recognizable terrain. More than anything, still lonely. So intensely lonely but not alone. If you cannot fathom the desperation of alone, no one is prepared to be by yourself for extended periods. Especially after the experience of trauma, devastation, with no support structure or understanding from someone else but yourself, you start to look inside and go deeper and deeper into yourself. The results can go in one of two directions, up or down, higher, or lower, and lower. I discovered the truth, lost, being hollow and empty for so long because another person manipulated and sucked the life out of me.

It was time to take responsibility for that choice, naïve, fallen into the grasp of a psychic vampire because I chose to give in and allowed it to happen and believed to be love. I looked and searched so far deep in myself until eventually, I lost myself. It becomes a twisted contradiction to how our species looks to develop a true knowledge of self. To fit in with the rest or gain recognition from others, attention seeking behavior, not thinking for yourself and repeat or think, feel, pretend like others to fit in with the crowd, but never belong. To belong is a complete and different concept in a tribal sense. Fitting in is to look to part, fill in a place, and stand there to look like someone else, act, and behave like someone else.

To belong, not to fit in, is acceptance of who we are, to not force to change to fit in with others, because those others accept us and we accept being a part of who they and we are, together, that is to belong. The ego, id, superego, and triad of the psyche become a true self-serving role for an individual. Not just to others, but ourselves. But when you are so deep and immersed within yourself, it's like the ego collapses until you have no more ego, nothing is in perspective. A fake marriage can also play a role to fit in because there is nothing that compliments a draw to belong in the marriage. Fit in with the other people's ideologies, pretend to be what that person wants to see and say what the other person wants to hear. To act and pretend is bullshit!

When a person changes or becomes another person for someone else, in a total and complete selfless act, all to make another person happy, it is unhealthy. There is a choice to give up your identity, all sense of self, for another person, put up with someone who cares only for their needs and no one else's. Could give a shit less about the other person's happiness, or their state of mind, condition, what it is that person commits and compliments in the relationship. Moments of love are to allow yourself to become lost in another person, to the point I lost all meaning of myself, the meaning of self, and who my true self is. She is not meant for me, or I am not meant for her, and everyone is not compatible in a relationship.

Not everyone can discover how profound it means to become lost in yourself, for whatever reason an ill person makes that decision, or become lost another person, for what it is, and what it truly means. When all sense of self-awareness, the meaning, and value for life, or sense of hope in the future fades, those are serious factors that can lead to serious personal issues. It is like to exist has become erased from the mind, and all memories of what life felt like before, now gone. I think; therefore, I am, but barely on a plane of existence. I thought too much; therefore, I am not, then I am nothing, if I am nothing, then I am dead, and if I am dead, then I should be alone?

Years and years later, still blinded to the truth about the whole situation and still cannot see or face the truth of her situation. All I had forced to watch, face, and how I lived for those months, and years to follow. I was foolish enough to believe I could help to heal her; help find the place she could receive treatment. No one can force someone to seek help; a person must be open and ask for help. It is that person's choice to want help and decide to get it, then stick with it. Who was I to believe I possessed the wisdom, patience, tolerance, and knowledge to stand by her, and what person possesses or is that ignorant and had that much of an ego to feel it is in their control to have the power even to attempt to change an addict?

I needed to focus on my issues and addiction, not someone else's. All these experiences exponential to the undeniable and overwhelming force to continued personal battles in overcoming alcohol. Now, I'll write it, say it, repeat this that there are people out there who can have one or two drinks of alcohol and that is fine. Through social and recreational times to have a couple drinks, in cases where I was with other people, everything was in check. It became the choices those social moments of recreation were not out at dinner, BBQs, or activities and events, where I find out being alone meant too much to drink and watching a movie until I passed out.

For those who can manage their recreational drug use responsibility, I always restate, do not take this the wrong way, or as an attack that you do drink alcohol and do so in a responsible manner. Not directed at you, eat drink, be merry, go out and get your groove on. Those types of people can have one to two drinks a week and make it out on the other side. Not me, I become a lunatic, my genetic makeup is not Jurassic to fit with responsible consumption. The denial, the depression, and lack of motivation keeps me striving to become the most kind, giving and loving, open, person I can try to be.

I realize, as a sober alcoholic, like any user, addiction is a life of denial, self-loathing, a punishment of hatred for yourself. Addicts take it out on everyone else in the world but never own up to their accountability. Addicts lie to avoid the truth. Avoidance, apathy, the path of self-destruction and continued self-medication is an easier path rather than to fight, stand up, decide or give in to the developed ability to say, "Sorry, I cannot drink that. I am not a person who can live a life with alcohol."

The large part in a vicious cycle of dependency and it sucks. There is a trigger inside the addict constantly trapped in that mind set and state of fucking hell. The addict's trigger longs for someone to pull it, if not by their own hand, get that fix, take the pills, or have all those drinks. The relapse, and another mountain to climb out of or depth to swim from the bottom and make it back to the surface. If you have never been there, saw it happen to someone you love, have loved, or experienced an addict firsthand. If you have never reached out to be there for someone overcoming addiction, you have no clue what to expect.

You also have no right to judge or have an opinion on the matter. Go and meet someone high, coming off drugs in a detoxification facility, or someone in recovery, or shut the hell up. Listen to a sober addict tell you a couple stories. Listen, people; you can easily become an addict just the same as anyone else. Go ahead and ride that high horse because you are no different in genetic makeup, somewhere in there is a small nucleus inside and pop. That's all it takes same as any sickness, illness, or disease — cellular design. I consider my experiences and ask, is this a manifestation of light, love, and positivity? Do these occurrences stand for a path of consciousness and health? Not for my situation.

We see what we choose and want to see from those images of others and within ourselves, based on personal influences. We reveal what we choose to reveal. I have a zest for getting deep into the explanation of the mind since my time spent inside the shadow and survival led me to make it through and come out on the other side.

I have recognized to include added explanations during conversation because what the mind thinks, at times, is not what a person intends to say, or requires clarity. The sender and receiver are not on the same frequency or wavelengths because of clouded interactions. It becomes important to speak clearly and speak in a precise manner. In this case, not even on the same page, or in the same sport.

I see through it all. Life is wonderful. I'm grateful for it. I had no idea you cared about my welfare. I can be a little dense and oblivious. Sorry for the drama, friends, and family. I'm not trying to make excuses for anyone, and we are all responsible for our behaviors. No blame game, I accept my part in this. I was wrong for her, and she was not the right one for me.

Inspiration

I returned home to Utah only to face another series of unfortunate events. Mom was in the middle of a real estate deal to sell her Lehi home about to move in an unfamiliar place and under advisement from shady real estate individuals (unknown to me). She experienced unexpected levels of stress during the sale, the process of the move, lacked support and intimidated by those around her. Heartless creatures who behave in unacceptable manners are everywhere and deserve a lesson in human behavior.

It was within the next year; a noticeable change started to occur with mom. Other changes occurred when she was not able to drive home in the dark, lost items and misplaced objects she had not lost or misplaced in the past. Forgot the time or dates of events and holidays, and I know people do this, she would also write everything down. It was in the times of confusion when these memory issues happened while at work. She loves her job and tells me all the time about the kids of her bus run, "The kids are so great on the bus." See, mom is a bus aid and helped the special needs kids to and from school. A job being the light of her life whenever she spoke about the bus run, her driver, and especially how each of those children made her day.

The Eagle Mountain, Utah condominium turned out to be a distance from her two jobs, and she decided the best decision, return to Lehi. After a couple years we did just that. Within a couple months we moved back to Lehi. All in all, we could have remained there, to begin with, such is life and the journey. In the stages of mom being at work, to clean and move in the furniture and unpack the boxes into the house, a large orange tabby cat started to appear. He would make his way inside to explore the house and go from room to room as though it was his place.

Months passed, I mowed the lawn or fixed a sprinkler. The orange tabby cat leapt the fence, bound across the lawn to see what I was up to, and would visit. The huge cat soon gained the nicknamed Boots, because his paws were immense, and he is a unique polydactyl breed with six toes. So, he chose me, and after the first harsh winter had moved indoors.

Long story short, the young couple next door had moved out and were in the first stage of starting a family. After the discussion, the two agreed. They gave me Boots because of their situation, and I was more than happy to take the cat I had developed such a close bond. Fine with me, since Boots had already been inside the house for weeks and they never really noticed or came knocking to look for him.

At our new place, mom continued to show a decline in cognition, and the ability to perform routine tasks, something that confused me. She also showed confusion, but I could see she did her best to try and cover up these issues. To be unaware about how a person can decline from the sharpest memory and detail oriented, then slowly symptoms start to become progressively worse. The situation is something optimistic people can overlook as age related or a physical problem. Except my concern reached the point where she needed to see a doctor. Mom received a diagnosis with progressive dementia in 2010.

I recall the exact day she also returned from the employment medical evaluation, as it ripped my heart out to read the diagnosis. Mom equally devastated and confused, lost her job as a bus aid with the school kids. She now had to stay home, "Mom, we will work through this; everything works out, and will continue to work out. Now that we know, there is always the possibility of treatment."

Well, this shows you how initially optimistic I was, but also in my ignorance. The diagnosis of dementia turns out to be more than care provided with simple treatment interventions and medication. In my mind, it was the belief there was a difference between dementia and Alzheimer's Disease. At first, I thought dementia was not as serious as the form of Alzheimer's Disease.

Another shock came through internet searches and with medical books at the library. I had learned my mom and inspiration has a terminal neurodegenerative disease. Not only is she confused and her cognitive memory causing her to forget certain aspects of life, directions, names, dates, among a hundred other simple routines, I'm at a loss at this point.

Someday it would be me eventually going to explain, "Mom, dementia is going to take your life."

Now, as a grown adult, who experienced the same explanation as a boy, "Colby, you might die from your birth defect, or you might not live past the age of 16." I would be the one to tell mom, "you can die from your condition," or "you are eventually going to die because of dementia." It had been a horrible experience.

Of course, just like my rare congenital disability, there were no answers to all the questions I needed answered — only theories from the medical research that didn't know the cause of the disease. Alzheimer's and progressive dementia two separate diagnosis, both theoretically correlated and caused by congenital elevated levels of long-term stress, other cases of long-term abuse of drugs (alcohol), little heredity is involved (genetic), but the highest rate of theory is stress induced in the brain imagery. However, it was learning that dementia and Alzheimer's disease carry the same terminal long-term effects on a patient's mind. Eventually, one that leads to the body's inability to function and shut down.

All the central nervous systems eventually shut down from the brain's inability to support to the rest of the body. A person in any situation like this has a plan of action or should have a plan in place, and I started. Never wait and put aside preparations or procrastinate till the last minute to emotionally prepare yourself and complete the plans for the unfortunate day a loved one passes away. If there is an expected diagnosis, live every damn day to the fullest with that person and love them to the fullest.

We would garden, laugh all the time, take the time, and create positive memories because, for us, it was all those positive memories I keep in my mind and heart. Also, a means for reliable mechanisms to cope, make sure there are support systems, and be capable to adapt to supply home care to a loved one or family member. Also, there must be other means in place to face such unexpected and expected traumatic experience and how much neurodegenerative diseases take a toll on the patient's mind and body.

I was able to care for mom each day, not only as a palliative care giver, as her son. Boots was around the place, on the roof, and through a cracked window. Not a single minute goes by, I will not say it is difficult, time consuming, an emotional challenge, and impossible in the end. Because there is far too much, a person can do without help, support, and guidance to care for someone in a degenerative and terminal condition. There was no hesitation or second guessing my decision to provide her home care and be there with her. She cared for me in my time of need as a child, also, throughout my life.

Mom gave me unconditional love, guidance through life, so much support, and a much-needed kick in the ass, but most important a warmth for reliable advice. She was always there for me, and I would sacrifice it all to be there for her. I began to write my first book and enrolled in my first bachelor's degree courses and stayed home with mom. Went on a couple dates, but never explained my situation for why I was at home with mom, at my age, since none of the women I dated asked.

I know it lingered in the back of their mind to ask me about living at home with my mom. However, like my birth defect, I was never comfortable to let anyone in my life when it came to my emotional baggage. She and other women would end up leaving, or it wouldn't work out, and I would not want to put all that on someone else. At this time, no plans on being closer than dating, friends, or to get involved in a committed relationship because of a nightmare for a marriage. Man, I was gun-shy being around strange women at this stage in my life. Besides, the dating scene I had returned to had become a completely strange, terrifying nightmare.

I kept focused on publishing and managed to release nine full length novels and eight children's books. My intention to keep mom in a stable, familiar home environment, and work from home and finish a bachelor's degree, keep her healthy and happy. All the work had not been enough as her condition soon required 24-hour care and full-time medical observation. The strain on both of us had begun to show. Over the years, mom's mental and physical condition continued to decline while we kept a positive environment and remained hopeful.

She had soon started to wander from the house in the middle of the night. The part that scared me and showed it was time to have her placed in professional care. Mom entered a care center June of 2014 from advanced neurodegenerative symptoms. My friends helped me through the tougher times, stopped by to visit often, also would see mom in the care center. There is no way to know the meaning of life, and not a single person has the ability (the audacity) to tell another person how to live their life.

There was a bitter betrayal by what happened, anonymously, at first. It was confusing to know someone in my family dared to report and accuse me of elder abuse. MY family accused me of doing something abusive to the mother I loved! Completely absurd for any person to believe or that would ever happen. I had to call the state office only to discover there was nothing negligent, the case already dismissed. Mom and I ate three times a day together. I cleaned the house regularly. Helped her shower, did her laundry, and love my mom. Who would have done this?

These people and the person responsible must not have been aware of my ability and access to the case information. Not only through filing a Gramma request, but through other resources. When the department handed me the paperwork, I discovered the names, all relative's statements for hell's sake, "That was that," as they say, and "all she wrote." Losers. These people are no longer in my life and as sociopathic and heartless as these people are, never care who they hurt or who they have hurt in the past, present, or future. Narcissists.

Mom and I constantly talked, daily, and made decisions based on her choices, most important, I listened and gave her advice and allowed her to decide. We spoke quite openly in times before she went to the care center, as we watched her favorite shows, like American Idol and Chef Ramsey. As a son, there are times I admit to forcing myself through the droll life of reality star television. Mom loved it, and I loved to see her continued interest in recognition of all the singer's names, and for her to know when her shows would come on each day and week.

I love mom with all my heart. I did feel failures as I was not able to support her with the daily care like I used to or see her every day as I wanted to. There were still all the monthly bills, a mortgage, all the home repairs, costs, and car insurance, utilities, etc. I pushed the limits to publish all the books I could, make the necessary money to pay for the house, and bring her back home with an in-home care provider. Hold to all hope; mom would show signs of improvement, that her medication regiments would work. Hoped that one day the phone would ring it would be the care center to inform me mom would be able to return home.

I would see her about three or four times a week. I always made sure to tell her I love her and tell her, "I will always be here for you. If you feel alone, all you need to do is have one of the staff members call me."

All the while, on a ten to twelve-hour schedule to write, edit, and publish my books to the best of my ability. I looked for any excuse to visit the care center if only to check if mom's laundry needed a wash. Hug her? I took her smarties, peanut butter cups, which are her favorites and other treats. I would take her out to the places when I had to shop and shop for her. We would stop to eat at her favorite restaurants. Most importantly, take her the peanut butter cups she loves.

There were a couple factors that contributed to my decision of another relapse. In the depths of what mom faced, to no longer care for her, and have in my daily life, and my inability to keep her in a familiar home, that was it. I recall the exact moment of another relapse and return to the heavy use of alcohol and not able to cope with being in the position I found myself in. Mistakes can create developmental modifications toward a lack of progression and without positive reinforcements or inspirations.

Positive people are all around; each are those people who think and feel, or see things with similarities, in thought, able to connect and have fun, seek enlightenment and happiness. People who surround me, who act with compassion, and behave with decency, add a huge dose of chill and a tiny dash of wit and hugs. There are no directions included what works, or what path not to choose, with regards to individual life courses and what not to do, which might lead a person back to make the same or other mistakes twice. I have done that so many times in life, so many mistakes, but these failures allowed me to develop into the person I am. I wouldn't change a thing!

It was to see my mom in that care center, enter her room, and leave each visit. The only issue was to see other residents and patients diagnosed with similar or the same neurodegenerative disorder. I could not face or deal with the sight of the progression happen to someone I love and watch her slowly deteriorate being sober. It was hard enough to walk from that place without any knowledge there was alcohol in wait for me to consume and forget it all later that night. I didn't see any hope for a positive outcome.

I missed mom in the house with me, friends, and certain people. To have put her in that place is a difficult experience. She says, "Colby," with a huge smile, "I am so happy you are here!"

I knew her favorite place when I came to visit, "Do you want to sit in the lobby and look at the mountains?"

"Yes, I do!" she says, "I like it here, the staff and the girls are so nice."

"Let's go this way," took her arm to guide her in the right direction.

The staff was helpful, and the RNs that help her. She smiles as we talk, "How is Boots, Sage, and..." pause, to remember the name, "Sirus!" Happy to remember reflects I can tell her mind struggles to recall her memory and cognitive functions.

"The cats are doing good!" I choke up in the moment but tell her, "They all miss you."

"Look! The girls painted my nails," she held out her hands.

"That is amazing!" her smile lit up.

She always asked, "How is school going?"

"It is good. I am about to finish my degree!"

"I am so proud of you, Colby. You are doing so well."

I would notice her hair, "They did your hair, and you are wearing your favorite color, Pink!" Mom loves pink, and the staff always stopped to talk with us, kind and enthusiastic

The emotion flowed from within, and words poured out. There were times to sit in the care center parking lot and break down, and cry was all that I needed. Let it out. I began to see what is unseen and never believe what I see. Believe in nothing and trust no one, only what the voices in my head and the angel on my shoulder whispers in my ear, "Stay sober."

That devil on my other shoulder, whispers, "Go have a drink." I spoke with mom about my drinking problem; she was not surprised.

Even with dementia, mom had kept a sharp sense, and still had sharp abilities. Said, "You cannot punish yourself because of anything that has happened. Just do your best and get help." So, I did. Stubbornness is one who hardly ever listens to the whispers of a voice, or subtle sounds until it builds to a scream. Hit the bottom or receive a wakeup call. Change comes sudden.

Mom's message was loud and clear; the main reason for my choice to see my doctor. My blood pressure was through the roof, my panic attacks during the day, worse than ever, and life was no good in a daily state of drinking. To wake up in the morning, a mess and feel like a train wreck is no way to live. There were times in the morning; I had drunk far too much the prior night that I would throw up the next morning. I was hardly eating, and if I had eaten a meal, there was no nutritional value. Mom's words of wisdom made all the difference in the world to me. It was clear.

We live, learn, and make mistakes, change, adapt, and overcome to learn from each mistake to which is part of what makes us stronger and weaker as human beings. I admit to knowing certain things and, also, know nothing about others. I search out the answers in times of thought, for only what I routinely place a focus on, that I need to know, brainstorm. I admit to when I do not know and let it go and learn. No need to assume, debate semantics, or argue for the sake of argument, become frustrated, just let it go. I will be silent and just shut my mouth. Mainly, stop asking why.

There is no why, sometimes. Mysteries of life are that there are certainties that occur with no cause for an effect and have no explanation. I don't need someone to explain their reasons, I have my own, so I listen and be present in the moment. No one was there in the moments I had no clue what the best decision might be, or if the choice I was making was right or wrong choice, and that's the point of learning. The whys are more complicated than any of us may ever know.

There are things in life we cannot avoid, and situations bound to happen, both tragic and magical. No logic or reason behind why just random acts. Happy and unhappy accidents. People choose to be and behave the way they are, and no one can change them or how people choose to act, behave, and hurt or help people. Whoever you think you are, you might not be that person to other people.

It might be a shock to be able to step out of your body and have a look at the self, see you from yourself, from outside and see through you. We would like to believe in explanations and grasp for the reasons and the purpose in life, right? There is not. Nothing. The whys create more complications than you and I can ever know. Certain questions became eliminated from my thoughts in determination to seek out happiness. Why? Sounds like an attempt to explain to children how airplanes fly! Why? I planted a seed somewhere inside my mind, 'get away from it all.'

Life will run its course as the natural cycle. We all understand the results of what happens consequently. It comes down to being vulnerable, the courage to work and put your creativity out in the world, living life the best way possible and doing the best we can. Be good to each other and treat each other with kindness, but what about people who are on the opposite spectrum?

We can strive to make worthy decisions and help ourselves during times of need. Then, when we are in a position, help and do the best we can for others. What about those people who are not happy, resentful, look to put hate into the world? Easy, they want people to think they are happy, but they hate themselves because that is all they know: hate and no love. People look to make other people angry, share in their hate because it supplies their hate a justification to continue. Hateful people surround themselves with other hateful people to share in propelling that hate to others like an addiction. Addicts look to attract other addicts to share in their addictions.

Hate, anger, resentment, guilt, pain, shame, and other forms of negativity are all addictive processes in the mind. There are no secrets of life revealed here, or new ways to lead a perfect life. There is no way to achieve success or get rich advice in here. There is no, how to become the hero or achieve fame and fortune (that is a dangerous path in itself), and no specific guidance how to achieve your goals and dreams. Laugh more at the senseless world we live in, make better choices with common sense. Nobody has all the answers. Claiming to know all the answers is a lie!

Never in my life, NEVER, have I developed such a thirst to reach out and take it. Reach out and take the offer that surrounds me at every opportunity. Use caution in mindful daily approaches to every situation presented, as experienced last night. Messages transmitted from all directions, from all around and everywhere, and when interpreted, processed, and developed, clearly received, filed away as either positive or negative, depending on the path set forth before me.

Let go of your mind,

all past choices.

Let go of those who hurt you,

embrace, love, and feel your emotions flow within your soul.

Love. Forgive and brave the storms,

you are meant to be exactly where you are and who you are.

You are who you acquaint,

those who surround you, and you surround yourself with, become you,

only those who accept, find acceptance in return. Accept yourself, love you.

Brain Surgery

September 1st, 2014, just another day. Except it was around the point of my third day into a personal alcohol "detox." I look out the front window in search of distraction, moments of reflection, just anything to avoid the thought of alcohol. A windy breeze rustles through the fall leaves of a tree in the front yard. I see a medium sized tree branch that hung too low and somehow decided it needed a trim. Seemed like a simple task, get it done and rent a chainsaw from a nearby hardware store and cut it down. Throw the pieces in the trash bin.

During the events in my master plan, something went horribly wrong because 'operation tree branch' did not go as planned. I held a tight grip on one of the main tree branches, and an extended reach with a chainsaw in the other hand, to cut the branch. Picture a scenario of me stretched like Spiderman, from limb to limb, with one hand gripped on a chainsaw handle. Like an idiot who never once, while on the ground, stopped to look at the bigger picture or second guess the scenario, "this might be a bad idea, maybe I should get a ladder and some professional help?"

For a split second, the thought that went through my head, before the actual tree branch, "Move!"

I guess either the branch or chainsaw swung in reverse, struck me in the right side of my head. A good direct blow too. I could sense this was not just a graze or a one-off bounce from the noggin. Afterwards, I guess the branch swung around another time, a hundred and eighty degrees. It struck me across the right eye and scraped off part of my nose and cheek. No time to dodge, react, or deflect, it happened so quickly.

There was no chance at a "Bruce Lee stylee" because in my right hand held the large and potentially mutilating chainsaw. While my left arm wrapped around a support branch to keep me stable, and... "Kung Pow!" smashed in the side of the head, by the tree branch. Attack of the poltergeist tree and, "Congratulations, Colby! You have just won the grand prize and trip for one to the ICU!" All expenses, NOT PAID!

Long story short and ten feet above the pavement, in and out of consciousness, I manage to keep a tight grip on the main branch and somehow drop the saw. I do not recall if the saw quit or continued to run if so, that could have cut off a hand or section of my arm. At this point, I had no recollection of how I climbed from the tree to make it across the front lawn. I managed to open the front door or make it into the house: no clue and no idea, all a complete blur.

At this point, I recollect the bathroom, "Great, I made it to the bathroom," check the mirror and notice blood streams down the side of my face, a large trickle down the back side of my shirt. "Not good."

I take the closet towel and thought to wrap it around my head. My hands covered and smeared with blood, "Shit, call an ambulance." Because from all the blood no towel is going to solve the problem.

From the bathroom doorway and into the hallway, "I am falling forward, and I cannot stop this from happening!" smashed against the wall in front of me and dropped to the ground. Once again, blackout and unconscious.

Gaining consciousness, I recall the ceiling light above me and being on the carpet, my head in a pool of blood. So instead of the call for an ambulance, I tried to clean up the bloody mess with the towel from my head, "Great idea, let's clean the blood stain from the carpet before calling an ambulance." No recollection of what followed or how it was even possible to make a phone call. It was at this point I must have managed to make it to the phone, dial the number, and call for an ambulance.

Someone told to me, somehow, before the ambulance left my home and made it to the hospital, I supplied a fireman or a police officer my father's cell phone number. My father contacted through all this and informed of the accident. The last memory on my end, being in the hospital. A bright hospital examination light above me, not being able to see, blurred vision. The balding man standing above me, right out of an 80s horror film, with a mask over his face says, "Colby, do you know where you are?"

"No," forced a reply, "is this a dream?"

The man was more urgent in his response, "No, you are in the hospital. You have a head injury bleeding between your skull and the brain. The bleeding against the side of your head causes a downward pressure which could cause the brain to press against your spinal cord. Your condition is critical." his words mash and echo, off in the distance, somewhat comprehendible.

Then, he said with an extreme tone in his voice, "Colby, do you understand these words? I must perform surgery," reality sunk in. Screwed, completely paralyzed, and in shock. The situation was reality and no dream.

"All right, go ahead," what other response could I give?

My last recollection was that anesthesia mouth apparatus placed over my mouth and nose, "Breathe in, take deep breaths and, inhale... exhaled, deeply. Good; just relax." Descension into complete darkness that surrounded my entire body.

To be in a state of unconscious ability and perceive nothing, not even my body, only the mind. On the physical side of life, there were procedures performed on my brain to save my life. However, these procedures done on a parallel conception in the unknown and me unable to see or feel anything, aside from where my current conscious and subconscious mind was. Difficult to explain, visually.

I did not leave my body or see myself from above the table like a near death experience. All that surrounded me was complete darkness, total nothing. No sounds, no voices, and no distant lights. Void of any sense of physical sensations: no pain, I felt no love and zero consequence, just an absence of all the human emotion or sense for other consciousness around me one would feel. Such as to fell guilt, remorse, hate, bitterness, or any human physical connection to the body, all of that absent.

You see, aware of my mind and the current state of nothing around me, just a mental image in complete darkness, no sight, more like a floating concept of inside a void. There was no sense for direction: no vertical, horizontal, up, or down. Gravity was nonexistent in the current parallel. Just a spiritual plane where, for the moment, the doctor was poking and lasering around my brain. A place I needed to remain. It was one of the deepest states of unconsciousness ever felt in my life, and those who try to theorize, hypothesize, and form explanations of my conclusions of the experience will fail. Assume, but that's all it would be.

I only say this because you will be externalizing my internal experience from your conceptions, predispositions, and biases on what it is you believe. For my concept of the situation of only a mental piece of consciousness to float, as matter, and perceive the mental imagery of darkness and the absence of light, it was a state of displacement where the matter displaced from inside my physical body. It felt as though in stasis and to lie in wait for the doctor to finish his surgical procedure.

I did not experience any outer body imagery of myself on the operating table or see any procedures of the craniotomy performed on me. All that surrounded my mental imagery was a complete space of void, left in the lack of any sight, complete and total dark. I could sense the dark, and it was not a description of color, per se, only capable of described as surrounded by nothing. Suddenly, it all ended.

I faded, awake, inside a hospital room, surrounded by machines and other beeps and noises from fascinating equipment, "You are in the intensive care unit." A nurse informed me.

No recognition of the severity of the current situation, "Really?" Only confusion about where I was and what the longevity would be.

"The doctor will be in to speak with you," still part of the dream?

The doctor entered, "Colby, do you mind if I explain what happened and what you can expect?" He was already in the phase of an examination, light flashed across my eyes and pinched each of my toes, "Do you feel this?"

All I could manage was to stare at the ceiling, frustrated, "No, I don't."

"I performed brain surgery last night, repairing seven subdural hemorrhages and discovered an eighth that was difficult to stop," he continued. "However, it is my best guess you will recover for the most part."

"Do you know who the president is?"

Unexpected, "No."

"You are lucky to be alive," I guess the best part is to remember some of the after, "If you would not have called an ambulance, within thirty minutes to an hour, there would have most likely been nothing that I could have done. The results could have been much worse." There is missing time in between recollections of the days that passed.

He would come and go. I was not aware of the hospital they had me admitted. I had no idea of the day of the week, or if it was night or day because there was no a.m. or p.m. of the wall clock. The doctor comes back in the room, "X-rays show no signs of paralysis, and the morphine could be the reason you cannot feel your toes. They are moving, and that is a good sign, but we will know more in the next week all the extent of the damage. Consider this your second chance." He stood and left.

"Wait, I need to get to my cat, Boots," waited for the nurse to come in. All I focused on was my Boots.

My mind was fuzzy. The room out of focus and voices echoed and reverberated from the walls. There must have been serious drugs and dosages used in the procedure. Rooms are not supposed to be the size of a major observation room or a garage! As I looked around, an intravenous tube led into my right arm, and machines and nurses walked to and from various areas of the room, entered, performed exams, "My cat is at home or outside, alone."

"I will have someone call your dad, and let you know about your cat. Is there a key somewhere?

"There might be one under the door mat?" she left. There was a person who sat in a chair somewhere in the room, all day and through the night.

It was at this point I was in the intensive care unit for a total of seven days, I believe, and more hallucinations than ever! Finally, released to a regular hospital ward and spent eight more days there. After a total of two weeks of physical therapy, rest, relaxation, and drugs. There was little to no sleep from people who walked by the door, an annoyance in ritual every two hours.

My friend popped her head in and came as a visitor, and I almost got upset, that annoyance, again, until I recognized her friendly face, all smiles. So happy I recognized faces. I thought she had been another nurse who had come to ask those questions, "Where are you? Who is the president? Do you know the time and date, your date of birth, and what is your name?" She was so worried to read on social media I had sustained head injury and almost died. We talked for a while, and she was on her way out.

Doctors and nurses and more doctors entered my hospital room, every two hours of every day and all hours of the night to drain my energy and recovery time. Worse than recovery from brain surgery and severe head trauma. The daily grind continued for days. I remember the television was on, but in the first days no one showed me how to change the channels. So, The Mummy was on constant replay for days on end!

Once again, in that paradox to discover I had another catheter inserted and connected to the glorious "jolly bag," "Great." I grew up for the better part of five years of my life with tubes in the sides of my stomach, and about 18 years to have one of those tubes slid into the most uncomfortable of locations. Now, I get another catheter and more morphine! I remembered the catheter days from my youth and doctor's examinations; all had come full circle. Seriously, in the middle of the night, and in the mornings, I would wake to an experience of the inside of a hotel room. A strange place because I had to use the phone and call the kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner delivered to the room.

Before my hospital discharge, the nurse informed me, "Your dad and stepmom are on the way from North Las Vegas."

"Will I be given instructions, paperwork, and medications before going home?"

"Yes, and you might want to consider a stay with your parents in North Las Vegas until you fully recover from the head injury." I had not planned on that aspect, "There are always complications that can occur once you are released."

"What about the catheter, will the doctor remove the catheter?" still surprised the doctor had not removed the catheter, and prepared me for discharge.

"You will need to be examined in urology."

"Can you schedule that?"

"I will check with scheduling," no way I planned to leave with a catheter still inserted. "Your other family and friends," the nurse said, "visited often." She changed the subject from the catheter removal quickly and left. I did recall explanations of outlandish stories and tales about a mini-sized android that came from under the hospital bed and cleaned the room and prepared my food.

There involved strange conversation on the phone with my dad, "I am about to leave on a trip to Singapore, then for England. Next, to India and visit the best neurosurgeon in the world."

"Are you sure, Colby," dad seemed worried and confused, "I have to get ready to leave today, so I have to disconnect the call because the doctor's private plane is ready for takeoff."

I explained to him, "Mom and my cat Boots will travel with me."

I realized, it was morphine that formed those images in my head or had been dreams, and never occurred. I did tell my dad a bunch of stories, so in conversations, the doctor explained to dad, "I worry about Colby's state of mind and the future of his condition. I would recommend Colby be in a care center for an extended time."

My father explained to the doctor, "Absolutely not, Colby would come stay with us should he need some home care. We will be with him at home for the coming weeks and watch over him."

Recollecting, morphine had been a major part of my early life. I had experienced a traumatic birth, and childhood, with my rare birth defect. So, discharged from the hospital, still with a catheter and a "Jolly" bag, after cooped up on that single hospital floor for weeks, restricted from going outside there was a huge sense of relief and freedom to leave! Even though the damn doctor never took out the catheter. Come on!

I was wheeled to my father's vehicle in the parking structure, by the cute nurse aid, "I'm taking her home with me, all dressed in white. She's got everything I need, some pills in a little cup," when the song came to mind.

The sensations were pure exhilaration as I breathed in fresh air, a breeze blew across my face. The auditory noises from the late-night traffic echoed through the parking level. I could see the faces and recognize people who were around me, as familiar faces of loved ones. Both of my arms, legs, and the ability to stand was functional. Thanked the universe for speech, and the ability to stand, walk, or move. September 1st, 2014, and... boom, bam, struck multiple times on the side of my head and almost died! The realization returns, often, "I almost died!"

My dad and stepmom stayed with me during the recovery process, make sure the conditions improved for me to live on my own, or move with them. I understand it would have been a burden, but I didn't feel all that incapable of home care and staying at home. I experienced memory lapse, continued migraines, dizziness, and confusion. Fatigue and to stand up or sit for too long became an issue. No longer able to drive a car, if the sun went down because of vision issues. The drugs from the pain and operation being a large part of the issue, also the medication taken and prescribed after my release.

It was at that point I knew everything changed. It was the fact that I could still breathe, speak, and walk far enough to get into the passenger side of the car, on my own accord was a blessing. The doctor said to take it all slow. It was unexpected how long the recover process would take. So, after years of recovery, here I am with purpose, being born with a birth defect and no medical explanation for the cause. Only, it was the miracle I survived the gift of creation and exist at all. Each day is a gift. Through all other experiences in my life, I still exist. It is hard to understand, surreal, after all my mistakes, accidents, crashes, addiction, and head injury. No more being the person who took life for granted.

Over the months that went by, I took things slow, and started an outline for a new book, decided to see how recovery would turn out after going through CT scans and brain examinations. I felt a steady improvement after about a year. Within the first couple weeks, dad and stepmom had returned North Las Vegas; certain things had returned to somewhat of a normal routine. For the first month, my cat Boots would not leave my side.

I was on restricted vehicle operation for the first three to five months for obvious reasons. I had just experienced severe head trauma, underwent major brain surgery, and was on serious medications. Someone with a head injury and who just had brain surgery should not be out on the road behind the wheel of a vehicle. Even a walk to the front door or for the bathroom, to dress in clothes, and get in and out of bed was a task. There is still dizziness, nausea, headaches, light headedness, vertigo. I have anxiety, social phobia, head rushes, and numbness in my lower legs and back from simply leaning to one side of my body for too long.

Tragedy, challenges, trial, and tribulation are obstacles to overcome and paths which lead us to opportunities to learn and grow. Cherish the simple things in life, I know it sounds all cliché, but it can all disappear just like that! As difficult life can be, the reminder showed me what life offers while I am here. Sure, apathy and sadness, shame, guilt, resentment, regret are all out there, every moment.

There are endless possibilities of achievement with the correct attitude and positive outlook. I mean, consider after all that, a craniotomy, seven to eight life threatening subdural hemorrhages, I have about two thirds of my brain and faltered memory function. The only time you will ever hear me consider the term "luck" involved with such misfortunate circumstance.

Luck is not a word I used much in my toolbox of vocabulary. Fates and courses of nature seem more relevant forces. Except for near-death experience and stories of survival. I don't toss around the word luck, at least I don't. Except when people use the term bad luck since most people do not have "bad luck." For example, there are bad moments that happen to people because of being ignorant or in moments of stupidity? I have been there, managed to wake the fuck up and I am still alive, continue to unlearn and develop, redevelop myself, as I see fit.

Old Cat Man

It was the start date for an official vacation from the endless analytical processes of relentless academic, mental sweat. My mind cannot manage the endless barrage of required reading material, line by line, and constant translation of information, retention, and recollection. My damaged brain requires a mid-day shut down, and more than often an extended recharge, in decompression mode, to recover from all types of critical thought. The college assignment process requires information retention, and conversions to assignment requirements, and distinguished syntax... blah, blah, blah...

Under unfortunate circumstances, I decided to sell the home and leave behind the city's congestion. All negative experiences and visions evolved around unwanted emotional energies and an inability to keep up with the costs. The house sold in a matter of a month. April of 2015, I chose my escape to the desert mountain landscapes and a historic mining town. I made the choice to live in a small town for a simpler and quiet life. Raised a small-town boy, I had finally returned to set in my small-town roots.

Escape the troubling memories, triggers, and stresses of the life that had broken me down. Not to mention, the home I lived in had too many rough memories and personal demons for me to remain. The choice became a no brainer for an escape to an easier lifestyle. I chose a quaint miner's shanty in Eureka, Utah, packed up the U-Haul with only the needed requirements to decorate the small home. Lastly, I loaded up the cats the next day and made the final drive southeast. I have left the valley behind.

Before the decision to move, I had experienced a reoccurring dream about the move and the drive. All of which had the elements and details of the landscapes and terrain. Landmarks surrounded unique farmlands that decorated the painted roadsides that led to Eureka. In a southerly direction, all intentions were to make the smooth transition from city life and the adjustment. Whether consciously or subconsciously to buy a home in Eureka, Utah, move to this location and start over, it meant a drastic change.

My mind and body needed to escape and settle somewhere else. The dream intuitively led me there, and all the elements were in place. A force set in motion released everything and designed the change, restart, relearn, and let go.

My psyche or subconscious influence pushed and pulled in a southerly direction to conclude to know or unknow because this is the how and why most conclude a decision. I was not meant to live the life I was leading before the move. Life was not a comfort surrounded by congested roads, confined stores, and parking, limitations. My life was in an unhappy place to experience all the negative forces and surrounded by parasites unaware of their unacceptable and selfish behavioral issues. I gravitate with a select few and friendly people, supportive and positive, and who are authentic in being genuinely human.

In the old cat man's world, there were two new arrivals added to my pride of feline beasts. Along with Boots, my trusted companion and roomie, came queen Sage, November 2014. November 2015 came the next addition, Siris (or, Osiris named after the Egyptian God), with his two unique Batman ears. As with any new animal arrivals to a household come required adjustments that take a while to settle in. Everyone needs to become acquainted. It eventually happens, and if you are a pet owner, you know the routines.

After woken up by each of my three feline beasties, at three separate times during the morning, one needled each of their front claws on my face and side. Another cat's sharp teeth started to nibble on my finger. I'm half asleep but realize this is strange behavior. Boots now chews my fingers! "Come on, buddy!" To look up and hear his, "Meow!"

I climb from the bed with the usual sore muscles, dizzy head, ringing ears, a daily reminder from the aches and pains to an aging body. Mind over matter solves this momentary lapse, yeah sure! Remain under the blankets for an extended period, "All right, time to get up, lazy fiend."

"But it is barely eight forty, Ante Meridian. And why not just say a.m. like every other person?" To most, there are no considerations when it involves the weird, bizarre, rare, and strange, freakish normal behavior. Acceptance comes with the territory. Which, involves a morning ritual to discover what the cats have drug around the house, left out on the floor, all the cabinet doors Boots has managed to pull open with his extra digits. Oh, the surprises of a cat with thumbs. The undiscovered pleasantries of a species of Boots' kind.

I follow his lead and became one who now freely roams the mountainous desert hillsides. The lone alpha, who peers over his territory and is fiercely protective of hid pride. Then returns, hereunto the presences of my pride of cats, in a routine decision to familiar work duties in my cabin. I am an out of the ordinary free-thinking artistic minded creature, who flocks with others of like minds, birds of a feather. We feed off one another's abilities to entertain new possibilities, explore the uncanny to the extreme, and push the envelope beyond boundaries. Vulnerable, harmonious, and shared personal sacred moments, in which new comforts and courage through exploration of the uncomfortable.

Recognition soon discovers exploration of the dreamscapes, "Holy cow, that was the same dream, only experienced in the same manner of reoccurrence." exact sequences, with the exact home design, down to the very last detail! Cats paws pitter-patter across the wood floor, most in a playful situation of cat and mouse. There is much more to a dream state we experience to uncover to which connects the conscious with the subconscious, as it relates to the "in between."

My life, cats, and personal happiness always comes first. Most people and mew acquaintances were accepting and helpful. My overactive personality and unusual outgoing weirdness could have been too much for the locals to accept. You know, being the new arrival and stranger. Nevertheless, there are times of shared humor, holidays, extraordinary events, and people who welcomed me into their lives and share happiness. Within the brief time in Eureka, or like every other small town, this type of outgoing behavior can present to be uncomfortable from the outsider. I had learned to deal with it, tone it down, and retreat home when it became a concern and move on.

People I speak with around town or often visit are those to talk with and spend time around and interact with social growth. So, the best action or reaction is none; it comes through interaction. I have developed the ability to ignore, and work at personal improvements, forgiveness, mostly forgiving myself, and cut out toxic energies of psychic vampires from my life.

Positive results come with high rewards in returns as a result, not only physically and mentally, but emotionally, and financially. Because I am focused, productive, time is a resource. People claim time is money; for me, time is the most valuable resource on the planet because it leads to creative energy. The creation of a positive vibe comes with people who want to be around me, and invite me around them, acceptance for who I am, and I accept in return.

Elimination of self-doubts and insecurities were and are never to second guess any of my decisions. Never wonder if the choices I make are opportunities that I should or should not have taken. I analyze options, accept, decline, and pass over with a choice to say no. Comparisons and false equivalencies are too familiar in all areas of life, and these times, look for them. I have a name, I am a person, and might be completely different than what you think, or people who have led you to believe I am and am not comparable to you. Not you comparable to me. You have knowledge and talents I do not have, and I have knowledge and talents others do not have. I am just me, have achieved certain goals and accomplishments, but remain Colby.

Take it a step further with an overview of the bigger picture. I continue to be mindful, learn, and develop myself through past reflections from both positive and negative experiences that led to what I have achieved. To look back from where I have been, what I have overcome, and the accomplishments of where I am in the moment. The path chosen and where I am in the moment, are because of the positive choices made from the hard lessons I learned to overcome all those mistakes and times I fell and got back up. Certain paths that I chose to take led to mistakes, but I learned from those mistakes and created opportunities for achievements.

Creative new opportunities for developmental and behavior modification led me to progression and created positive inspiration from positive thoughts. Positive people are all around, those who also think and act in similar mannerisms, behave with decency, add that huge dose of "chill" and a tiny "dash" of wit. Directions include how not to follow the same course and what not to do, which can lead back to the same or other mistakes. I have done that far too often. It allowed me to develop into the person I am.

There is a moment, a pause, slow motion that comes in random moments, with a reminder to pause for reflection to look out a window at the glorious and scenic view. Interact with the cats for more than a couple hours, I forget about what chores can wait, or what needs doing, and play. Step out the front door, walk outside to take in the fresh mountain air. Look up at the sky, reflect, take a moment for all it's worth.

I can tell Sage the story about her adoption, "You see, Sage you were just the smallest cat when I first saw you. And at the shelter, I decided to adopt you and take you home. You are just so beautiful, and you placed your paw on the widow, against mine, and I placed my hand on the glass." She winks her eyes at me, so impressed and content to sit in my lap.

The little princess knew exactly how to pull my heart strings, manipulate, and persuade me to return the next day and pick her up as soon as the adoption center opened. I share Sage, this beautiful soul, with you. It seemed the 'puurffect' opportunity and I just felt it, and so did Sage. I am so happy she chose me. Was that a strange and awkward description of the decision to adopt a cat? Good, hope it was.

Boots, the 22-pound majestic and prestigious six-toed 'polydactyl' Lion. King of the pride! Sage, the Queen, a most adorable warm-hearted soul. The sweet, cuddly, Siris. Always there in the wee hours of the morning, in wait, for my eyes to open and bring out the cat treats. He who has the ears of Osiris and Anubis, therefore, is the Egyptian watcher of the "micerus" inside the cabin! I consider myself a blessed person because I know my family has my back and offers their love and support. Reminds me their support is just a short drive away or a simple phone call to reach out.

My cat pride is always there with me, as well. These little creatures sense every time something is wrong; there are emotions or frustrations, also excited over happiness and joy. Cats are sensitive to all feelings, extremely sensitive to each other's feelings, no matter what people say differently about them. Cats are extremely sociable; each one follows me all over the house.

I can see it in their eyes, "hey, what are you getting out of the fridge."

After I come through the door, "Where you been?"

"Why have you been gone?"

"Did you bring home the cardboard, plastic bags, or any toys?"

Walk into the other room, "Where you going? What are you doing in the other room?" my cats will follow me all around the house, and we are a pride.

Goodbye

It was in the same American Fork hospital where I was born, in Utah, where I returned to, now as a hospice care center for my mom. When the hospital closed, a new hospital opened nearby. The old hospital site became renovated and turned into an elderly and hospice care center. I understand how difficult this part could be to rea and might be hard to revisit if you have had or are going through the stages of grief and loss or have had the experience to lose a loved one.

I revisit all moments in life mom was there for me and how I would never have been able to be there in her time of need, had it not have been for her. It was a strange paradox to realize mom was in the same building where I was born. In the present, I now faced one of life's unfortunate scenarios. Through the first moments of being inside the building, it was hard to stay.

Each time I left the care center became much more heart wrenching than before. I would break down into tears, angry, frustrated and hated to see mom in that condition. There are seniors and disabled individuals within our communities that lay in a bed all day, drooling, eliminate involuntarily and rock themselves into exhaustion. Soon, they cannot care for themselves without the help of others. Caregivers are truly heroes and warm-hearted people — a gift.

I have been in situations where people are prepared to transition from this life. The moment is beyond how words can describe. If you have ever held someone who is about to pass, you know what it means and how it feels. There are hardly words to explain. I am here to tell you that we are more resilient than ever imaginable. Our drive and passion to survive is strong. Now, I don't do this for a pat on the back or for you to look upon me as being a good person. Only to say I do and still would have done what I did and would never have changed a thing. My mom is one of the bravest women in the world to have gone through what she experienced.

Purpose and vulnerably come from within, for me, in addition to mom's inspiration from how she continues to inspire courage, bravery, happiness, and joy. A day at the care center to visit mom is always inspirational for all types of reasons: my creator, my love for her to which I would devote everything. Especially, if only to make her smile, even if it is to visit, for now. My dedication, educational drive, and work is to follow her warmth and kindness, joy for life. To be an example, inspire others, and keep me going through it all. She helps me with new and creative ideas for my business and reminds me to live each day, "Go for it, Colby, I am so proud of you. I love you."

She is the most smiley and funny person and being with her are the best moments. She is my life and one of the main reasons for my sobriety, if not for myself. A reason to live happy and continue to strive for only the best and nothing less. Even as her condition progressively declined and seeing her in the care center, and the other resident's conditions so severe and debilitating is tough. A majority cannot stand or walk, speak, move, or even function on their own. It completely rips my heart out, (I am tearing up).

I mean, the first three months I would hold the emotions back, keep it locked inside and fall apart in the car, parked in the care center parking lot. Toughest experience I have ever gone through. To see a joyful, caring, funny, and loving mother fall to a progressive disease. Especially a disease no one can explain or has no cure, and no one can fully explain except the location in the brain region for the cause. My mother's mind is still able to remember my face, says my name, and the names of all three of my cats, and people in my life, "Colby!" she says as I walk towards her in the hallway.

Her mind recalls moments from the past, jobs over the decades, and the experiences we had in life. It is not all bad. There are the "bad days," but understand it never matters, good or bad, to share every moment with her are the best days. Even the days when I recognize she struggles with the experience on her medication, lack of energy and focus, "I love you, Colby!" She catches herself, and in recognition, it appears in those points the synapses fire, and she can regain her senses and cognitive precepts.

Near eleven months of sobriety coming August 1st, 2015, which I do not think about or care to keep track of in the moment. All that matters, for me, is not to return to number zero and start over. I find mindfulness in not going to AA or think and ruminate to talk about the amount of alcohol I consumed, how it ruined my life, I lost all my material possessions, a job, and my life destroyed. It is a choice. The alcohol and amount I consumed was my own decision and choice. So was my decision to stop, because of the life I have now on my terms I chose to quit. No one else could have decided for me.

My mom and I had an in-depth conversation about the reason I chose to drink, I explained, "I drink at the end of the day to relax, at first. Then, continue to drink to numb all my emotions because I do not want to deal with the fact life is hard enough, without you being home. I cannot help you the way I want to." This, that, and all other reasons people become addicts.

"You punish yourself because of what you cannot control. You cannot control what happens, and if you keep punishing yourself for what you have no control over, then you will never stop drinking. You will die," and mom was right.

To quit and overcome addiction would still be my personal choice and challenging work. A life-long mindfulness in constant self-evaluation and the awareness of what is around me and manageable changes in thinking and daily routine. Mom, my cats, all the time writing, dad, stepmom, and my friends all help me with support. There are moments in life that are continued reminders of why I am on the path I am on. All the work I look forward to, a purpose, and what and where it is, I strive to be.

Born to stand out, and never blend in. I can proudly admit that I inherited my mother's best qualities and confess that I also inherited her other lesser agreeable qualities. Hardheaded at times and stubborn, short tempered, but these could also be descriptions of a father's traits as well. I was and will always remain my mother's son. She is the reason and one who cheered me on to write, do good, and get my bachelor's and master's degree in psychology, she was the one who pushed and woke me up.

I received the phone call the afternoon of May 16th, 2016. Mom's oxygen levels had decreased over the morning. Her time left was short. The nurse expected mom would pass soon. The nurse informed me to come to the care center quickly. I arrived to see the family around her bed, as her breathing slowed, and became slower. The nurse took her pulse.

While surrounded with love, the nurse came to me and whispered, "Colby, she is fighting, maybe you can tell her it is okay to move on and let go?"

I leaned over her... to listen. Listen to the breathing, slow... To whisper, "Mom, we are all here with you and love you so very, very, much. We all love you and remember how wonderful, kind, caring and loving you are."

Her facial expressions differed from content to struggle, "It's Colby, mom. I love you, and you will always be with me," I took her hand. "It is okay to let go, now, and move on. You do not have to keep fighting; just move on."

After a couple labored breaths, she released her last exhale and passed with the family and me by her side. But, after we cried and hugged, there came a sense of relief. The weight lifted her suffering and her struggle and pain ended.

There was a sense of her arms wrapped around me, to comfort and hold me. It was surreal, peaceful, and she no longer felt pain, confusion, or had to remain confined to the bed. There is a sense of relief; she no longer struggles to remember how to do things, restricted to the care center and is free. I didn't think it would be that difficult, it was.

Still, there is relief she has moved on. Her memories and love remain with us. Leaving the care center after mom passed, in comfort and peace, with love all around her, and the sense of love for her in the room, being with her is beyond words can describe. I feel pain and loss in mourning, of course, grief and loss in tough times. I cried the entire drive home; however, I felt her presence and spirit with me and always will. Mom's memories of joy and kind-hearted love will live on with her light shining among the stars in the sky.

My mom is and will always be my foundation for the example of how to continue to live life — blessed to have such a wonderful example to lead by. I laugh, cry, recall all the positive memories and good times we shared. But all I wanted to do the entire time of her illness was stay in bed, cry, and escape the world. I did cry, late into the nights. I have cried over the years and during the processes of grief and loss. It has been two years to the day I type these words.

My heart breaks night after night, comes to a resolve to realize my mother is with me. I use this writing, recovery vocabulary, with other integrated methods of cognitive and existential therapies to heal a traumatized self. I laugh and cry, and then I get back to work on a book, live life as mom would have wanted me to continue. I will continue to be a writer, continue my quest for knowledge, joy, and happiness because it is what holds together a daily structured routine. Mom wanted me to achieve my goals, degrees, and receive my Ph.D. As I continue my career developing the craft as an author, it helps to translate the mental voice to the words on the pages. Recognize and accept it is the subconscious that knows how to take care of the conscious and the psyche's recovery.

To walk into the care center, in the American Fork hospital where I was born, after all the years had passed. Only to have my mom placed there later in her life and to pass away, in the same place, where she gave birth to me. It was beyond surreal and a life changing experience to think of the connection. I feel the only word is harmony.

In the Moment

To be alive and breathing, for the chance to survive and overcome all life's challenges, allows me the guidance and a continued navigation through hardships. There will never be a time everything goes according to plan, that is a given, and what happens when we are down or fall? An overwhelmed mind falls into a cycle and retreats; I expect the worst, and life continues to me at my lowest points. Opportunities in all those positive moments are times of preparations for best laid plans. I build myself up to see me through the hard times and low points. But isn't it easier said than done? Why should it be easier, said? I've done it, and honestly, there is challenging work ahead.

Life is never easy, and I am not alone, so that makes it much easier to know there are other people out there, like me and like you, who have experienced or are experiencing similar trials. There are two choices, as I see it, sink or swim, rise or lay down. Being able to continue and read, type, write, and complete books is all well and great. Another thought is what to do next and continue to stimulate my mind and progression. Avoid stasis in creative and mental stagnation. The synapses require a continuous spark and keeps the energy in the body in motion; otherwise, all is for naught.

I recognize the path of grief and loss is one of confusion, frustration, anger, guilt, and all types of emotions to which relate to this congenital disability that changed my life. However, it was the experiences that change me into who I am in the present. Otherwise, all life's lessons would never have taught me the important survival mechanisms, and necessary skills to recognize important actions and reactions. All those moments when people treated me like shit, other times with common decency, or mistreated and abused, would never have open my eyes to the world.

In the decision to write about my background, it was important not to become caught up in floods of emotional misconceptions or on a defensive, or an attack. Life is not a battle or a war, or an arena where fights and arguments people win and lose. I am not here to win or prove myself to anyone. The only importance that matters is to try my best and put myself in a position where I continue to be the best person I am and work toward improvements.

These attempts to recollect the memories as best possible, as I remember, and leave the past behind because we cannot change the past. People might feel differently, or see it another way, but you are part of the story, not the story. These are events of my narrative, my story. Of course, the past is guilt, regret, resentment, and leads to depression; the future can lead to anticipation, the unknown, worry, and anxiety. It helps to prepare and understand the in between, to create a balance, and keep a mindfulness on the present moment.

Where was the instruction manual for how to live life and an ability to flip through the pages and give me the solutions to solve my problems? The dog ate it, or the cats tore up the pages. There is no instruction manual to life. Follow by example and learn though observation, adapt, and overcome with a new positive outlook on each situation. Life can be what you make it and your acceptance of situations, or your view of a problem and whether to make an action plan to change it, as a result, can help determine the influence on the outcome. Not cycle it, so it continues to be a result of dissolution and apathy, or avoidance and self-defeat. There are choices and options to change what the situation is, into variables of what a situation can turn out to be.

I work to develop confidence, courage, self-esteem and recognize people in new perspectives, remain tolerant and try to focus on acceptance. It is hard. My sense of self-awareness defeats insecurities. I am an introverted person, which is why I live in a town of less than 800 people and the middle of the desert. I am comfortable that way. I am and feel those insecurities will wander around the backstage and wait to make their appearance.

Self-consciousness becomes an understanding that nothing would ever be handed to me in life without determination and focus on recognition and challenging work. I work to earn what I strive to become, a self-sufficient and accomplished person who achieves goals with strict time management and a daily structure. Even if my mind and body require a daily nap, from lack of energy and the result of traumatic brain injury, to see where I have been, overcome. Where I am now in life keeps me focused on the path I am on. I look back from ten years ago, to have overcome what I have, and survived what I went through and it is damn amazing. So, pat on the back, and if you have done it, give yourself the credit you deserve.

I have a little more than 2/3rds the normal brain dimension and synapse function running in the brain; it terrifies me. Even though the limitation and restrictions were precautionary warnings for my daily activities, I always recall, "There is a chance you might not live past the age of twelve, or to the age of sixteen." I later discovered 50% of children born with Eagle Barrett Syndrome do not live to the age of two years old. 20% die during childbirth. The other 30% pass away before they reach their 2nd birthday. There is a chance circumstance can take us at any moment, just like that. Life carries both tragic and astonishing variables lying in wait for us all, but what it comes down to, mostly, is a person's outlook on life.

Life's experience showed me never accept expectations or limitation. People had already managed to condition my mind. I lived a life of fear being on a constant look out for continuous dangers. I never developed that sense of self, told I could, or could not do something because of potentials for injury, which might occur because of being born the way I was. I only knew one thing: determination to prove people wrong, became more important than people telling me who I could be, and seek my true potential. No matter the challenge and struggle. A plain and simple truth!

When told the same thing, repeated over and over, people are bound to believe what others tell them, and it is conditioning. The options for future paths to choose and each direction become limited or limitless if there is negative or positive reinforcement. Negative consequences result in fear, avoidance, dependent on the example of the consequences provided. Positive reinforcement results in strength, courage, determination, and self-esteem to achieve goals and strive for success.

I have funny, mad, wise, and crazy friends... The wisest and funniest of all! The popular phrase, who you attract it who you are? I do not know them well, but they speak mostly truth. These words of wisdom come from a man in a wired, weird, and wacky way. It might seem "a little out there," but everything expressed comes from the heart.

I have discovered there is luck, hope, and beautiful things to look for in life and throughout the world. I will never completely win, but that is not the point. I try, over and over and those are the comforts and spoils of a glorious victory, being in the game. It is not the win that matters, but the way I chose to play. Games are played by other people's rules. I am not going to play any games according to other people's rules. I do not play people games. I deserve treats, me time, chocolate, peanut butter, and peanut butter cups with ice cream!

My will, I am, and what I have allows me and my cats what is needed to survive, to get by in a world of predator vs. prey. To live in a world where most fail to recognize there are those who take other people's kindness for weakness. However, those who expect to take advantage of my kindness as weakness will be sorely mistaken and face the consequence. I protect myself, those I care about, and future happiness and my way of life.

I feel to have worked hard over the years, taken advantage of the opportunities that help me both personally, socially, spiritually, and financially as to sustain my future way of life. To look back was a wonderful, surreal journey. To think about the effect this birth defect had on my parents, sisters, the stresses, fears in their minds, and for them to cope with what would have been a tremendous emotional challenge. The cause of Eagle-Barrett Syndrome is still unknown.

I surpassed what others had expected from me. That is not to say I never experienced the strongest sense of fears and pain in my life. I lived in a constant state of self-doubt and terror from such an early age. Apathy, confusion, self-worth, body image, fear of commitment, denial of addiction, grief and loss, all a means to numb my ability to feel emotion, continue and experience the pain of life's hardships and not to choose to face reality, overcome the challenges, and succumb to fear and emotional pain. Life is hard; emotions hurt and kick the shit out of us because we don't want to appear weak, emotions lead to discomfort, work, struggle, emotions are reality. It is still a constant struggle and will be for a long time, as it is for others.

Whether decisions are wrong or right, we all fall and fail. The choice is to stay down and not get back up or use your abilities to stand, fly, and soar. To remember, through a child's eyes, it might seem life is simpler. Nothing is further from the truth. Although if honesty and truth are what we shared, life could be simpler. There would be no reason to hide our shame or feel guilt and regret over the choices we made or make. We would be free to keep shining.

I love my parents, family, and friends, and those who inspire and touch my life with an openness for tolerance and understanding. A surprise with open hearts and warm kindness. I have developed into the type of person that almost lost faith in humanity and hope for the human species. There will always remain a glimmer of hope. The search narrows and seems closer to fade than expand to the broader spectrums of solutions and progression. Allow the present to heal the past throughout life's events, leave it all behind, and become open to new possibilities.

My hopes are these reflections cause abilities to think and feel. Not feel bad or apathy, but how wonderful it is to feel, and hurt in life. I am alive to share these personal moments. Feel. Moments are times to reflect, relax, and contemplate simple random moments. Be present with others and enjoy the moments when there is nothing to do. These are moments are meant to enjoy: stare out a window, take a walk, spend time with family, friends, and other people, and be social. There are moments to be content, to reflect on the wondrous distant view of a horizon. There is a moment, a pause when the random slow-motion hits. A reminder to step from the inside, look out, and catch a glimpse of wonderful views. Look up at the sky, reflect, take a moment for all it's worth, keep shining.

