Like the Pine Trees Lining the Winding Road: three lies I told myself

In trying to live rightly there were three lies I told myself. Not malicious, not intentioned, but lies nonetheless. The reality was right there before me but I chose the lie, wanting things to be a certain way, wanting life to conform to my misconceptions, my pride or my impatience with the slow march of truth.


Lie number one: "I'm done with the Ducks."

Doug was right. A couple of weeks ago, frustrated with a pattern of inconsistent and inept play I wrote I wasn't going to watch Duck football anymore, wasn't going to read or write about it; there were more important things, I sniffed. But those closest to me saw through my self-delusion and fit of pique. "You're either a Duck or you're not," Doug wrote. And Stephanie put a helmet to my gut in her straight-ahead, Earthquake Enyart style: "Do you want some cheese with your whine?" she said.

I couldn't stay away. My self-declared Duck boycott didn't last twenty minutes. It wasn't that long before I was sneaking a peek at Rob Moseley's Duck football blog. Furtively I followed all the reports all week, and a week ago Saturday I watched the Stanford game from whistle to whistle. In typical Duck fashion they fumbled four times but won in the last six seconds, and I was hooked all over again. Then this Saturday they sprung out to 45-17 lead, dominating and electric, but fell flat in the second half and held on for an unconvincing win, 55-45, a basketball score. Arizona closed within 48-45 with six minutes to play before a dropped pass on fourth and three and a late, clutch touchdown run by LeGarette Blount. Blount has powered his way for crucial late touchdowns in four of Oregon's wins, all close games that would have been lost without him. His jubilant dances with his teammates after these scores are my fondest memories of this season: the love of football, the love of competing, runs deep in this group. Players like Blount and center Max Ungar and defensive end Nick Reed have no quit. They might still lose to the Beavers, who have a shot at the Rose Bowl this year, but they've given everything they had, and that's all a fan should ever ask. Doug is right. I'm a Duck. I was a Duck when they were 3-8 in the bad old days, and I'll be a Duck forever. I'll ask the score on my deathbed, and Stephanie will kiss my forehead and whisper in my ear, "They suck, Dad." And that will be her final I love you, her way of not going gentle into that good night. They do suck. But I love them just the same. I have a fierce love for all the things I love, whether they suck or not. Because sometimes I suck too.

Lie number two: "It's nothing. It will go away by itself."

About a year ago I noticed a lump. Under my armpit, about the size of a almond. It's nothing, I thought. An ingrown pimple, a cyst, too much chocolate, a quirk of old age. I went to the doctor after several weeks of procrastination and he concurred. "It's encapsulated and regular in shape, and there's no cause for alarm."

But now the cyst has migrated to the side of my ribcage and grown to the size of a kiwi fruit. It doesn't hurt and I have no other symptoms, but whether there is cause or not I feel alarm: such a thing isn't exactly normal, after all. People don't have grapefruit-sized lumps growing out of their ribcage, and by now it's apparent that it won't go away. At some point I'll have to have some kind of procedure to remove it. I still don't think it's serious, but it could be. Finally I made a doctor's appointment. I took today off for my birthday and scheduled it for 1:30, my present to myself, some medical peace of mind.

I'm not alone. Marie went to the doctor Friday and had her annual mammogram, and as part of the procedure they hooked her up to a machine that compressed her breast, the breast that nursed her four beautiful, intelligent children for ten years. There was an ugly, greenish discharge. The technician tried but could not hide her alarm. She expects to hear from the doctor today or tomorrow.

Both of these situations could turn out to explainable and minor, or not. But the point is, nothing in our life is certain. Not a minute is guaranteed. Particularly for Marie and I, we've reached the age where risk factors mean something, and medical realities could change our lives forever. Working class lives hang by a medical thread. My job ends in 85 days, and with it, potentially, my medical insurance. If Marie, God forbid, had cancer, would she be able to work, and keep her health benefits? How much would the treatment cost? How much would be covered by insurance?

You can worry yourself sick, or make yourself sick with worry, and the two are not quite the same thing if you think about it carefully. There's no sense worrying about might happen because all kinds of terrible things could and a few terrible things will. We were blessed this weekend with two marvelous days. We went to Austin's play and rented a room at the Peppertree and had a night together in a warm room with a king-sized bed, a night free of all our troubles. She got up early the next morning and went to the grocery store for work. I slept in and had the complimentary breakfast, a Belgian waffle and granola, two hard boiled eggs and a crisp apple, two glasses of orange juice. Marie returned to our temporary home and we went to church. The music was wonderful. We sat in the pew after the service lingering to hear the band finish the last song, a modern hymn Marie particularly likes, and an old man shuffled down the aisle to speak to us. His body was weak and bowed and he could barely speak from a ravaged mouth. I had to lean close to understand him. Even then it was a struggle. English was a foreign language from his wracked and disfigured face. But the sincerity and purity in his eyes was unmistakable.

His name was Elmer. "I'm 86 years old," he said. "I've had cancer surgery three times. The only reason God keeps me alive is to be an encouragement to you and other people. I know that I'm on his schedule, and my purpose is to obey him." His voice was a hoarse whisper and the tweed jacket he wore was worn with age. But you could not mistake the clarity of his mission or power of his faith. There are no coincidences or accidents, there is only the truth waiting to be discovered, the voice of heaven waiting to be heard.


Lie number three: "If we're patient and faithful, we can come up with a solution that will work for everybody."

Marie is underemployed here, and my future is uncertain. Really, all of our futures are. John Lennon once said, life is what happens while you are making other plans, and then the end of his own life bore that out succinctly. Yesterday I suggested to her we could move to Oak Harbor and take the $5000 relocation bonus, that we could probably relocate for 1500 and she could use the other 35 to go to nursing school. She could get a two-year degree at Skagit Valley College, probably in 18 months or so with her previous schooling, and I could write, and between the two of us we could keep alive the hope of a better life, and that hope is the best any of us can have.

She listened carefully to my idea and said, "There is no way Austin would relocate. And I've put her through too much already." I understand her position, and Austin's. She's a sophomore at Beaverton High, a 4.0 student, active in drama with a group of friends, living just minutes from her three siblings and her father. Marie is right that it would be devastating and uncertain and painful for Austin to be asked to move, particularly for the whims and needs of two adults who don't have the best track record in getting along and providing her with a healthy home.

The lie was that this would be easy. A good friend of ours, Steve, likes to say, "life is simple, never to be confused with easy." The fundamentals of life, like the fundamentals of football, are simple and clear. It's the execution that's difficult. In life we have to pick up all kinds of blitzes. In life the turnovers can disrupt your game plan in devastating ways.

Marie and I haven't found a solution. We are still hoping for one, the right compromise of goals and needs and realities, the right mix of what she needs and what I need and what Austin needs. The right level of assurance and practicalities and commitment. When we are together and getting along the bliss and passion surpasses anything I thought possible in the world. When fear takes over or irrationality wins out, the shock and horror and sadness of it devastates me to the core.

I don't know what will happen. I don't know what should. I only know when I'm holding her my whole soul and being is in a quieter, better place. I only know the sight of her thrills me and makes me want to be a better man. With apologies to Jack Nicholson, who has played many better men but hardly lives as one.

"Happy birthday," she said
"I'm glad that you were born"
and I kissed her honey-colored hair
half abuzz with the fragrant scent of her,
good fresh earth and wild flowers
the curve of her hip imbued by heaven
with intoxicating powers
and I said,
remembering the pleasures of precious hours
"most days I am too"
And I kissed her where the lotions
and potions,
carefully chosen,
had made her so enticing,
"especially when I'm underneath you."

We don't set off to lie to ourselves. It starts because we want to be decisive and want to believe, so we set our minds onto a particular reality that turns out an illusion. There's no shame in believing or wanting or making a commitment to an idea. The essential thing is taking stock again, and recognizing the lie, acting on the realization you haven't been honest with yourself. So I'll ask you this morning, as you take your morning coffee or eat the sweet treat you said you wouldn't, what lies are you telling yourself today, and how will you replace them with the truth?