Pressure Washing, Crying, and The Dance

"How could I have known you'd ever say goodbye"- Garth Brooks, The Dance

Spring time weather in Texas is a mixed bag.  We can go from the 40's to the nineties in less than 24 hours. We have sunshine one day, and rains of Biblical proportions the next.  In fact, over the past few weeks, the weekend weather was less than ideal.  That's why a few weeks ago, on Good Friday, I was grateful to wake up to blues skies, sunshine, and pleasant temperatures.  I decided to take advantage of the beautiful day by pressure washing the driveway and sidewalk. I realize to many that this may not sound like fun, but for me,  your average suburban male, it was game on. 

I rolled out My Ryobi 3000 PSI pressure washer, connected it to the industrial hose left behind by a work crew, filled the tank, and pulled the starting cord.  The 5.5 horsepower sprung to life and the purr of the Honda GCV160 engine soothed my soul.  I hooked up the 15 inch surface cleaning attachment (for up to 3300 PSI), gripped the handle, pulled the trigger, and I was off.  As the surface cleaner magically glided over the drive way, several years' worth of dirt and grime began to run in rivulets down the drive way, into the gutter, and back to nature.  To help pass the time during this adventure, I made a play list on my phone to keep my excitement at peak level.  I took advantage of the noise of the engine to sing along at the top of my lungs with The Clash as we fought the law (the law won), answered The Ramones when asked if I wanted to dance, danced the night away with Van Halen, and [I] danced with The Hooters. 

After finishing the driveway, I moved onto the sidewalk, no easy task with a corner lot.  As I made my way down the final twenty feet or so, my muscles began to tighten, my arms ached, and the sub burn that had formed on my neck announced itself.  However, pride would not let me take a short cut, and I soldiered on.  Suddenly, my music took a turn, I went from Sammy Hagar explaining why he was unable to drive 55 to Garth Brooks' The Dance.  It's not that The Dance is a slower song, I have plenty of songs on my play list that slow down the tempo from Johnny Cash's Ain't No Grave, Toto's Africa, and Aerosmith's Don't Want To Miss A Thing.  Hell, I even have the  1970's novelty song, and tribute to the CB radio, Convoy by CW McCall on there. No, The Dance  (along with The Beatles' Golden Slumbers and James Taylor's Sweet Baby James) was one of the songs we played at my son Peyton's funeral. 

Peyton was only 13 when he took his life, and even though almost five years have passed, there are still triggers that will bring me to tears.  As my family and I walked up the aisle to our seats at his funeral, The Dance was playing along with a slide show.  I was transfixed on the images of Peyton's  smiling, happy face as the haunting lyrics and melody of the song played.  In the years since Peyton's death, I can't hear the song without picturing my son.  I see the happy-go-lucky kid that just wanted to entertain and make people happy.  I see his ever present smile, his read hair, his freckles, and the small scar near his left eye.  I hear his voice as he asks a never-ending series of questions, summarizes the latest season of Dr. Who, or his laughter as he rolls on the floor with Earl the Corgi.  I feel his weight against me as I carry him to bed, or get the good-bye hug as he returned to his mom's after a weekend visit. According to Tony Arata, the song's writer, “It hit me that you don’t get to pick and choose your memories in life. You have to go with things as they play out. You don’t get to alter them.”  Had I been clairvoyant and known what would happen to Peyton, perhaps I would have done things in life differently, but I wouldn't trade the memories (good and bad) of the time I had with Peyton.  

So there I stood on the beautiful good Friday, squeezing the trigger of pressure washer, not to make it run, but to keep from screaming in anguish, the purr of the motor drowned out my sobs, the red of my face could be mistaken for sunburn, and the tears that streamed down my face could just have easily been sweat.  I listened to the song to the end, and then for good measure, listened to it again.  I let my emotions run the gambit out there on the sidewalk that day.  I could have skipped the song, I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance. 

Take Me Out To The Ball Game To Save Some Lives

This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.- Terrence Mann (James Earl Jones) Field of Dreams

Peyton and me at his first Astros Game

It's that time of the year again, time for America's past time, baseball.  High school and college are in full swing (pun intended), and the pros are now in spring training.  It is that time of the year that,  to borrow a phrase from Ernest Lawrence Thayer, that fans from Boston to San Diego cling "to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast."

Sadly, Spring is also the time of year that sees a rise in the rate of suicides. Contrary to popular belief that suicide rates are highest in the winter, studies show that it is actually the spring. As TS Eliot said in The Wasteland, "April is the cruelest month." The reasons are varied and complex, but never the less, as nature experiences a rebirth, people sink deeper into depression, lose hope, and make the choice to end their lives. 

Over the years, more than 80 major league players have taken their lives. From former Cy Young award winner Mike Flanagan and Hideki Irabu, who was part of two New York Yankee World Championship teams to players such as Dan Thomas and Carlos Bernier that are barely more than a foot note in the Baseball Almanac. One of the more notable baseball suicides would be Ryan Freel, a utility player whose major league career spanned eight years with five different teams. Freel was the first former Major League Baseball player to have his brain studied by the Boston University Center for the Study of Traumatic Encephalopathy and the first to be diagnosed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), the progressive degenerative disease of the brain found in people with a history of repetitive brain trauma that played a role in the suicide deaths of former NFL stars Aaron Hernandez, Andre Waters, Dave Duerson and Junior Seau.  

So what do baseball and suicide have to do with each other? Maybe nothing. More that 15,000 men have played in the major leagues over the years, which means less that one percent have ever taken their lives. While there have been some, such as Jimmy Piersall, that openly battled mental health issues during their playing career, many suffered in silence over the years. Now former players such as Khalid Greene, 2003 NL Rookie Of the Year Dontrelle Willis, and former Pirates ace Ian Snell, and current players such as Evan Gattis of the Astros, Cy Young Award winner Zack Greinke, and 2011 World Series MVP David Freese have been open about their battles with mental illness. Statistics show that one in every five people deal with some type of mental health issue, then for every Gattis, Greinke, and Freese, there are four other players on the 25 man roster that are fighting similar battles. Over the years, players such as Tommy Hanson and Eric Show turned to drugs and alcohol to battle the demons, only to lose the war against them. Perhaps by being open and acknowledging the problems of mental health and suicide in our society, the Astros and Major League Baseball can help bring attention to a growing epidemic in our country.

Last year the Astros averaged 36, 797 fans per game. Once again, if statistics prove true, then 1,840 of those fans were dealing with some kind of mental health issue. Sadly, only about 50% of them were being treated, approximately 100 will attempt suicide, and four will succeed. Over the course of the season, of the 2,980,549 fans that took in a game at Minute Maid Park, approximately 387 of them would have taken their lives, and 9,675 of them would have attempted. In all, baseball would have lost 8,694 fans during the 2018 season.*

So before we brush it aside, imagine Dodger Stadium (average attendance 47, 043) in Los Angles sitting empty or T-Mobile Park in Seattle (capacity 48,116) with less than 1,000 fans for a game. That is approximately the number of people lost to suicide each year. A number that can be reduced through education and awareness. So while MLB teams set aside games to show appreciation to Teachers, First Responders, the Armed Forces , and Nurses (all needed and appreciated), as well as nights for Cancer Awareness, Autism Awareness, Transplant Awareness (once again, all much needed and appreciated), why can't they set aside a night for Suicide or Mental Health? With approximately 65 million Americans battling Mental Health issues during the course of a year, there would be substantial interest and appreciation.

I urge every person that lives in one of the 30 cities that supports a MLB team to contact their team and encourage them to host such a night. The same goes for all of those that live in cities hosting Minor League teams, from Triple A down through the Rookie Leagues to the Independent Leagues. Ask them to host a night that calls attention to such a tragic issue. I promise you, there are so many people out there that have lost a loved one, contemplated taking their own lives, or battle mental health issues that want to know that they are not alone, that they do not need to suffer in silence, and that there are people out there that give a damn. I promise you Major League Baseball, if you host it, they will come.

*This entire paragraph is based upon my very poor math skills.  My numbers could be off.  

Happy Rebirthday!!!

After my son's death, his mother and I made the decision to donate his oragns and corneas.  We wanted something positive to come out of his tragic death. Every year, on the anniversary of his passing, I write letters to his recipients, most of whom are unknown to me.  

Dear Recipient,

I hope this letter finds you well and thriving.  I know October 13/14 will mark the four year anniversary of your transplant.  Those days are forever etched in my mind for two reasons.  The first is that it will mark four years since my 13 year old son Peyton left this Earth.  It also marks four years since he gave the gift of life, which has helped ease the pain of his death. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him terribly.  The pain of his death can still drop me to my knees and bring on a cascade of tears.  However, whenever I think of him or talk about him, I always talk about the lives that were saved that day.  Despite the tragic nature of his death, he became a hero to eight people that day.

After his death, I wrote to each and every recipient telling you about Peyton. For about the first six months after his death, I checked the mail religiously every day hoping that I would hear from you and be able to tell you about the amazing boy that is now a part of you.  When I didn't hear from you, I became discouraged.  I couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to communicate.  You see so many of those amazing meetings on TV where the families of the recipients meet the donor family and hug, cry, share stories, and become lifelong friends.  That is what I wanted in my time of raw grief.  I needed to know that you were okay, and that Peyton was still alive inside of you.  

It wasn't until June of 2016 that I was finally able to meet David, the recipient of one of Peyton's kidneys.  He told me about the six years he spent on dialysis waiting for a kidney.  He told me that he had all but given up hope that one would be found, and that he was tired of sacrificing his day to day life to dialysis and was ready to take his chances.  That was until he got the call.  He and his daughter rushed from their home in southeast Texas to San Antonio where he received his transplant.  Thirty minutes after transplant, the kidney was producing urine (normally it takes several hours).  David also told me about the times he tried to sit down and write to my family to thank us.  He explained how difficult it was to put into words how grateful he was for the gift of life, because the gift was born out of tragedy.  How do you express your joy at being given a second chance at life when some one has just lost their loved one?  In speaking with another recipient (not from Peyton), and she told me how it took several years to be able to write to her donor's family because of the guilt involved.  Here she was living her life only because someone's child had died.  

Now here we are coming up on four years, and I hope it has been a good four years for you.  I hope that you have been blessed with the natural energy and enthusiasm that Peyton was known for. Maybe you have a new found love for anime, Dr. Who, or video games. Regardless of how you came to get your transplant, know that it was our choice to donate because we wanted something positive to come out of Peyton's death, and that is you.  You are living, walking proof that miracles do happen, and you deserve to live your life to the utmost, so consider today a day of celebration!!!  I want you to live with an unbridled enthusiasm for life, not guilt.  You are alive for a good reason.  You are a symbol of hope for so many others, and I know that Peyton would be proud to play a part in your life. 

Sincerely, and with much love,

David, Peyton's Dad

Author's Note:  When writing this, I wanted to figure out the perfect title. I originally went from Organversary to Transplantaversary, but neither seemed right.  I posted to several transplant groups to find out what recipients call the day they receive dthe gift of life.  There was the liverversary, kidneyversary, heartversary, etc..., but the one that struck me, and that I decided to go with was Rebirthday.  

Four Years Ago Today, My Life Changed Forever

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. - unknown

Four years ago today , Monday, October 8, 2018, my new life began.  It began around five o'clock  in the evening in the coaches parking lot up at College Park High School in The Woodlands, Texas.

The day started like any other.  I was up early to head to the school in order to pick up the shuttle bus for the swim team. From there, I drove to the pool for practice, back to the school for a full day of teaching class, and then back to the pool for another practice.

After the afternoon practice, I headed back to the school to make sure I had everything ready to go for the next day at school. During my preparations, the power point I was using crashed.  Feeling angry and frustrated, thought, "screw it," and headed out.

As I walked out the back doors of the school, I was greeted by a typical south Texas afternoon deluge.  I stood under cover waiting for a break in the weather, but when that didn't happen, once again, "screw it," came to mind, and across the parking lot I went , jamming my thumb on the unlock button of my key fob.  I threw my back pack in the back, jumped into my truck, wiped the rain from my face, and took a deep cleansing breath.  At that moment, I was startled by the strains of "Texas Fight", blaring from my phone.  I fumbled through my pocket to get out my phone, saw it was my ex-wife, and almost let it go to voice mail, and if I had been driving, or had started the engine, perhaps I would have.

When I answered with a tired and semi-annoyed "Hello," All I heard was "David, you need to talk to this officer."  The phone was handed off , and an official voice came on and told me that "Peyton James has hung himself."  At that point, my life changed forever. My 13 year old son had attempted to take his life.

I sat in my truck with tears and snot running down my face, I screamed and yelled until my throat was raw, my cries drowning out the rain drumming on the roof.  I was able to get myself together long enough to call my wife.  We drove through the night to Dell Children's Medical Center in Austin to be by Peyton's side.  We were able to say good bye before he succumbed to his injuries.

Now I sit here, wishing to God I was still the same person I was, wishing Peyton was still here with us, wishing that I was trying to figure out how I was going to pay for college.  But now I'm a different person than I was four years ago.  Instead of wondering how my sweet baby boy became a senior in high school, I am left to wonder when I will get to see him again.  Instead of worrying about him driving, I worry that his sister Emmy will never really know what an incredible kid brother she had.  All I have left are memories and pictures that I share with her so that she never forgets.

So today, as I head out the door to work, I will not treat it like just another day.  A part of me will not pay attention during inservice because I will be trying hard not to dwell on that day four years ago.  I will hold back the tears until I walk out of the building to the coaches parking lot.  I will probably sit in my car and let the tears and snot stream down my face.  I'll give myself time to grieve and compose myself before I head home.  When I get home, I'll hold Emmy tight and tell her about how special Peyton was.

The Senior Year That Never Will Be

The month of September is National Suicide Prevention Month.  The Week of September 9-15 is Suicide Prevention Day, and Monday, September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day. In honor of all of those, I have written the following entry in memory of my son, Peyton James, whom I lost to suicide in October of 2014.  This is for him and all the other children who have been lost too soon.  



As of Monday, August 27th, all schools in Texas were back in session.  From Orange across to         El Paso and from Booker down to Brownsville,  more than five million students are now actively engaged in learning across the state.  From reading and writing to robotics and rhetorical analysis, students are working toward their goals and preparing for their futures. 

On August 16th, 2018, students returned to class at East View High School in Georgetown, Texas.  However, one member of the class of 2019 was not there to begin  his senior year because in October of 2014, during his eighth grade year, he came home from school, went into his room and hanged himself. Despite the best efforts of first responders and the medical staff at Dell Children's Medical Center, Peyton did not survive his injuries.  On that day, he was one of 123 people in the United States (on average) that lost their life to suicide.  

Now I am left to wonder what might have been. For me, there are no senior pictures or the last first day of school pictures.  There will be no prodding and poking to get college applications sent in, no anxious days spent waiting for a reply, and no celebrations or consolations when word finally comes.  There will be no class rank, senioritis, no "I don't have to turn it in, and I will still pass." There will be no invitations, caps, gowns, or tassels. There will be no prom, tuxedos, limos, or awkwardly posed pictures with friends.  Finally, there will be no sitting through the tedium of speeches, introductions, and marches just to hear them announce "Peyton Andrew James".  Sadly, I am not the first parent to go through this, and even worse, I won't be the last.

According to the most recent statistics from the CDC, there were more than 45,000 suicides in the United States in 2016, an average 123 per day, and a 30% increase since 1999.  For teens, the rate of suicide has rose more than 70% since 2006. Even among preteens, the number has more than doubled, most recently, 9 year old Jamel Myles of Denver Colorado took his life after being bullied at school.  So what to do?

Approximately 20 states, including Texas,  have some sort of legislation that requires annual teacher training in suicide recognition.  Unfortunately, many states leave it to the individual districts as to how to approach the training.  This means that some districts will delve deeply into the training, others will do as little as possible in order to satisfy the state minimums.  Recently however, New York and Virginia passed state laws requiring mental health education as part of the curriculum.  These laws recognized the need for understanding mental health (the leading cause of suicide) for all students.  The Virginia law mandates that mental health education be part of the curricula for 9th and 10th graders, while the New York law changes the overall health education curriculum in elementary, middle school, and high school.  Laws such as this will go further to addressing the most common contributing factor in suicides.  Unfortunately, with most educators already being overburdened, and most educational systems being underfunded, it is hard to see laws such as Virginia's and New York's becoming the rule and not the exception.

On average, every day, 11 youths will lose their life to suicide.  Eleven families will be destroyed.  Eleven communities will be left to wonder what happened.  Eleven schools will bring in counselors for any students who may need to talk.  Some of those schools will address the problem head on, implement policies and procedures to make sure that it never happens again, some will allow a period of mourning and then go back to business as usual, and others still will fight to go back to the status quo, prepare for the state testing and pretend that it never happened, until it does again.

So as we all slow down in school zones, cheer our hearts out on Friday nights, complain about the amount of homework that the teachers assign, or gas up the minivan to taxi the kids from lessons to practice to tutorials, or invest in a homecoming mum that will rival a Rose Bowl float (Texans know what I'm talking about), let's take a minute to think about the senior year, or any other year, that never will be.