Have some shame. Move out.

/

Perhaps you've heard about Michael Rotondo? 

He's the 30 year-old man who was recently sued by his parents in an effort to get him to move out of their home. His parents claimed that their son does not pay rent or help with chores, and has ignored his parents' offers of money to get him settled.

Despite doling out five eviction letters, Christina and Mark Rotondo say their son still refused to move out.

Michael argued that legally, he was not given enough notice to leave.  

Two weeks ago Christina and Mark Rotondo won in court, and last week their son moved out. I'm not going to pretend to fully understand the dynamics of this situation well, nor should anyone else. It's probably a lot more complicated than it seems.

But what I know is this:

When my friends and I were 18 years-old and graduating high school, we could not wait to leave the home. Many of my friends went off to college or joined the military, and kids like me who weren't able to go straight to college moved into cruddy apartments with multiple roommates and multiple jobs in order to make ends meet. We slept on couches, converted closets into bedrooms, ate a lot of macaroni, shared the telephone with an upstairs neighbor, turned off the heat on all except the coldest nights, and struggled to make ends meet.

It was glorious.  

I didn't know a single person who wanted to or remained at home after high school.

Admittedly, I didn't have a choice. I was strongly encouraged to leave after graduating, and "college" was a word never spoken aloud to me by parent, teacher, or guidance counselor, so I never saw higher education as something for me.

But even if my parents had invited me to stay well beyond high school, I don't think I would've stayed long.

I was also sleeping in a damp, unheated, poorly-lit basement bedroom at the time, so my childhood accommodations weren't exactly first rate.

Still, I can't see me staying in that house for more than another year, no matter my circumstances. There comes a point in a person's life when the desire for independence and a willingness to take on the world become irresistible. 

Beyond that, there also comes point where shame should really take hold. At some point between the ages of 22 and 30 (and preferably a lot closer to 22), a person should start to feel the sting of embarrassment for not setting out on their own. Not testing their mettle. Not launching their future. And yes, this might mean finding roommates, taking on multiple jobs, and eating poorly, but these are things that every generation of young people endure.

These are the things that build character. Provide perspective. Strengthen grit and resolve.  

Get your ass out of the house and find a way to make it work. 

This is not to say that a person can't return home at some point. A messy divorce. An unexpected illness. A financial upheaval. If you have a home to return to, count your blessings and by all means get back on your feet. As someone who was briefly homeless, I know all too well how easily a person can fall from grace, and I understand all too well the fear of living on the street and wondering if you'll ever have a roof over your head again.

If you have parents who are able and willing to take you into their home, you're very lucky.  

But if you're a 30 year-old man and you're living in your parents home after they have told you to leave multiple times, and you still refuse, you've lost any sense of shame. You've lost the all-important ability to feel embarrassed by the choices you've made and the desire to extricate yourself from those choices as quickly as possible. 

Like a President who lies with impunity and feels absolutely no shame about being proven to be a liar again and again and again, the inability to feel shame over one's own behavior can lead to catastrophe.

In the case of Michael Rotondo, it means being evicted from your childhood home by your own parents.

In the case of our country, it means a devaluation and degradation of norms, an erosion in the faith of our free press, and a President who disgraces us on the world stage every damn day.  

Charles Wallace Dicks: Age 6

/

My son, Charlie, turned six today.

Six years ago (but it feels like 600 years ago), my little boy entered the world. At the time, I wrote extensively about his birth (as I did for my daughter), so today, on his birthday, I offer you a few highlights. 

______________________________________

Charlie was born via a planned C-section after his sister's emergency C-section three years earlier. With both kids. Elysha was in labor for a considerable period of time before realizing it. 

There were a lot of clues.

Elysha rose from bed at 3:15 AM and ate breakfast at 4:30 AM, which are hours of the morning that Elysha had not seen before or since. 

Then, after Clara and I left for school that morning, Elysha called the vet to make an appointment for our dog, who was suffering from terrible allergies. Licking, scratching, and making us crazy. When the receptionist said that the earliest appointment was three days away, she began crying. The receptionist then offered an earlier appointment, which, in her state of hormone insanity, she declined (creating problems for me later on). After hanging up the phone, she began crying hysterically until finally falling asleep in bed.

Looking back on that phone call, Elysha says this was the moment when she should have known that she was in labor.

When Elysha arrived at the doctor’s office later that morning, she was already three centimeters dilated and 75 percent effaced. 

______________________________________

Charlie’s timing could not have been better, for a number of reasons.

First, I was at work when I received the call that the time had come. I had just finished my lunch and was minutes away from picking up my students from the cafeteria for an afternoon of teaching. This was to be followed by a district-wide curriculum meeting at Town Hall. Knowing how much I despise meetings, Charlie’s first act in this world was to extricate his father from something that tears at the very fabric of his soul. 

Brilliant.

His early arrival also pleased Elysha. She was not happy with the prospect of another c-section for many reasons, mostly pertaining to the recovery, but she also never liked the idea of planning the birth date for our child. She’s always felt that a baby should be born when her body and the baby decide that the time is right. By coming two days early, Charlie did not allow doctors to choose his birthday. Like most children, he chose it for himself.

The early arrival also eliminated what would have surely been an anxiety-riddled Thursday night prior to the scheduled C-section, as well as the forced starvation that would have been required. Instead, Elysha enjoyed a relaxing Tuesday evening and even had some breakfast on Wednesday morning, not knowing that eight hours later, she would be in surgery, delivering our son.

Among other memorable moments:

Signing the consent form requiring us to acknowledge that surgery can sometimes end in death. Great way to start the birthing process.  

______________________________________

Elysha went into surgery ahead of me while I waited in an adjacent room. Fathers are never invited into the operating room until the mother is lying on the operating table, strapped down and drugged up. I’m not sure why this is the case, since this seems to be one of the most frightening moments of the process for mothers, but I spent my time, about twenty minutes in all, reading email, checking Twitter, texting friends about the possibility of golf on Sunday, and taking notes on a memoir proposal that I hope to complete this summer.

During the birth of Clara, I actually wrote sections of my second book. Prior to the transition to a c-section, Elysha pushed for four hours, so in between contractions, I would roll across the room and work on the novel. I had less time to write during Charlie’s birth, but I managed to complete the outline of my memoir and add two additional scenes to it.

______________________________________

When I was finally invited inside the operating room, I was greeted by “Something” by The Beatles, playing on the Pandora station that Elysha had chosen for the delivery. This was the song that Elysha walked down the aisle to six years ago at our wedding, so it seemed like a good omen.

______________________________________

Charlie was born at 3:09 PM as the song “Turn Turn Turn” was playing in the background. Serendipity at its finest. I’m not sure if we could’ve chosen a more perfect song.

______________________________________

“It’s a boy!” the doctor proclaimed and I began crying. A nurse explained that they had no tissues but offered me gauze to wipe my eyes. The doctor lifted him over the sheet as the nurse warned him not to “drip on us.” We took our first look at our son.

Someone in the room asked what his name was and my wife shouted, “Charlie!” Her words sounded so happy and so right.

______________________________________

Charlie was grunting when he was born, a sign that his lungs were not yet clear of fluid, which is common for c-section babies. I was encouraged to hold him upright and pound on his back to make him cry, and when I was not deemed forceful enough, the self-proclaimed “mean” nurse took him away to attempt her own form of cruelty.

______________________________________

Eventually Charlie was taken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit in order to clear his lungs, and after about thirty minutes, he was returned to us in the recovery room, where Elysha was able to hold him for the first time.

He weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce. He was 18 inches long.

Today he's a little heavier and a little longer, but he's still perfect. 

Speak Up Storytelling #2: Michelle Sebastianelli

/

Episode #2 of our podcast Speak Up Storytelling is now ready for your listening pleasure. 

On this week's episode, we talk about finding and crafting stories in your everyday life using Homework for Life. 

Next, we listen to a story by Michelle Sebastianelli about her hilarious and tragic attempt to transform herself through yoga and discuss the strengths of her story as well as suggestions for improvement.

Finally, we answer listener questions and make some recommendations. 

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you're not one of the 13 people to rate the podcast and four to review it in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier. 

We also have an unusual offer for anyone interested:

Elysha and I are looking to redesign the Speak Up logo, but before we do it ourselves (Elysha designed the first) or hire a professional, we thought we'd invite our audience to take a crack at redesigning it themselves. 

We're looking for a logo that pays homage to our current design but is also fresh, new, and will work well on our website, podcast, programs, and swag like tee shirts and totes. 

If you submit an logo for consideration and it is ultimately chosen, you will receive our undying gratitude, one free beginner or advanced storytelling workshop, two hours of free storytelling consultation, and two free tickets to our Real Art Ways shows FOR LIFE!

We can't wait to see what you submit!

Be a satisficer.

/

I bought some new golf shoes last summer. 

I was walking through Golf Warehouse with my friend, Plato, when I came upon the shoe department. Sitting on the very front of the department was a pair of waterproof golf shoes.

"I'll take these," I said.

"That's it?" Plato asked incredulously. "You're not going to look at any others? You didn't do any research?"

At his urging, I made a perfunctory examination of the the many options available to me, but about five minutes later, I returned to the first pair I saw. "Nope, these are good."

They've been serving me well ever since.

This has become a source of amusement amongst some of my friends. They scoff at my un-informed purchase and see me as someone who blindly plows through life, grabbing the first shiny object I see. 

"Not so," I say.

Scientists agree.

Researchers in the decision making process have identified two types of decision makers:

Satisficers make a decision once their criteria are met. When they find a hotel or a pizza or a pair of golf shoes that has the qualities they want, they’re satisfied. Although a slightly better version of the product may exist just a few feet away, they stop looking once the minimum requirements have been met.

For me, I wanted waterproof golf shoes in a size 9. Once I found those two qualities in a single shoe, I was done.

Maximizers want to make the best possible decision. Even if they see a bicycle or an apple or a pair of golf shoes that meets their needs, they can’t make a decision until they’ve examined every option. They are the researchers. The comparison shoppers. The folks who prize quality over speed. These are the shoppers who constantly return items to the store after second guessing their decision. 

Here's what the research shows:

Satisficers tend to be happier than maximizers.

According to the research, a lot happier.

Maximizers expend more time and energy reaching decisions, and they’re often anxious about their choices both before and after the decision has been made. They have increased levels of stress, both during the decision making process and overall. 

Satisficers rarely look back on a decision if their minimum requirements were met. They use significantly less time and energy in the decision making process. They tend to exhibit lower levels of stress throughout their lives. 

It's good to be a satisficer.  

Obviously there are times when you want to be a maximizer. Some decisions demand your maximum level of attention and effort. 

Choosing a home
Choosing a spouse.
Planning a vacation.
Deciding on a baseball team to love and support throughout your life. 

These are decisions that can end in disaster if you're not careful.

You could end up as a Red Sox fan vacationing on Staten Island.  

But sometimes, many times, oftentimes, good enough is good enough.

Those golf shoes were good enough. They still are. 

It's not all about the sleep

/

Last night I had the pleasure of addressing the annual meeting of the Cambridge Health Alliance in Cambridge, MA as their featured speaker.

After hearing my bio, I was asked how I manage to be so productive, and as if often the case, almost immediately, someone in the group said, "You must never sleep."

While it's true that I typically sleep 5-6 hours a night (and can sleep a lot less when necessary), it's a mistake to assume that my reduced sleep schedule is the only reason I am productive. There are many, many ways that I make the most of every minute of my day.

My life is filled with productivity hacks. Short-cuts. Routines designed to recaptures seconds, minutes, and hours from my day.

A few months ago, Elysha Dicks and I were watching the biopic of McDonald's founder Ray Kroc. In one scene, the McDonald brothers (the original owners of McDonald's) are demonstrating how they have turned the making of a hamburger into a model of efficiency. Not a single step is wasted. Every move is purposeful. The McDonald brothers were fanatical about streamlining the process as much as possible.

Elysha reached for the remote and paused the movie. "Is this why you are the way you are?"

It's true that I managed McDonald's restaurants throughout high school and college - more than a decade in total. And yes, it's true that the institutional priority of efficiency at McDonald's probably rubbed off on me, but much of my desire to squeeze the most out of every day is the result of motivation.

An keen awareness of the fragility of life. Watch my TED Talk if you want to know more.

So when the person assumed that I never sleep, I did what I've been doing for a while:

I pushed back.

"Yes, it's true that I sleep a couple hours less than most people," I said. "But there's a lot more to it than sleep."

He asked for an example. Knowing that he worked in Boston, I offered this:

The average American spends about 50 minutes commuting per day.

Not only is this relevant to productivity and time, but it's also important because we have an enormous body of research showing that people with longer commutes spend less time exercising and less time sleeping. They have sex less often. They are less happy, more likely to be overweight, and more likely to suffer from high blood pressure

Long hours of commuting, especially if you’re driving, are also associated with increased anger and resentment at work, absenteeism, lateness, and an ability to concentrate and perform to the same standards as those who live in much closer proximity to the workplace.

Long commutes can also increase the risk of heart attacks, flu, and depression.

When I consult with people on productivity, one of the first things I ask is about the length of their commute. If you're losing an hour or more a day getting to work, your levels of personal productivity are highly compromised.

In the last 20 years, I've moved five times between two different towns, but regardless of where I lived, my commute has never been longer than 10 minutes. And for the last 10 years, my commute has been five minutes.

If I spend a total of 50 minutes a week commuting to and from work and you spend five or ten hours a week, I have a lot more time to get things done.

So I asked the man how many minutes per day he spent commuting to work. His answer:

"A little less than an hour. Each way."

My commute for the entire week is HALF of his commute to and from work on a single day.

He spends about 10 hours a week in his car, fighting Boston traffic.

Every single week, I have about 9 hours of free time that he does not.

468 hours per year. Almost 20 full days.

Imagine what you could do with 20 extra days per year...

I realize that the length of your commute is often out of your control, but when Elysha and I were looking for houses to buy, one of our priorities was to keep our commute short. We limited our search to about five different towns, based upon a number of factors, but one of them was the distance between our home and our place of work.

I made sure that I was not wasting needless hours driving to and from work.

It's not all about the sleep. It's many other things. Some big. Some small. Some infinitesimal.

But they all add up.

Morning conversation scares me.

/

First words from my daughter today:

"Daddy, I noticed the word repair on a bottle next to your bed. Did you know that the r is an r- control syllable exception because the r is supposed to say 'er,' but in this case, it sounds like 'air.' Neat. Huh?"

I'm not sure which is more disconcerting:

That these are the kinds of things that Clara says to me every morning, or that I'm an elementary school teacher and have no idea what the hell she is talking about. 

Which hot dog is best?

/

Summer is rapidly approaching. This means grilling outdoors and eating lots of my second favorite food in the world:

The hot dog.

On one of our earliest dates, Elysha and I went somewhere for hot dogs, and I discovered that Elysha and I had something monumental in common:

We don't like any condiments on our hot dogs. Plain is preferred. 

I remember thinking, "This is it. We were went to be."

I wasn't wrong. 

Last year The New York Times conducted a hot dog taste test, pitting 10 popular brands against one another for hot dog superiority.

I had issues with this article and their taste test in general. Specifically, they did not conduct a blind taste test. Judges knew what they were eating. How can anyone expect to be objective when they know the brand?

Dumb. 

I also had a beef with some of the results. For example, the two winners:

WELLSHIRE FARMS PREMIUM ALL-NATURAL UNCURED BEEF FRANKS, $7.99 FOR 8 “Smoky, herby — is this fancy?” was Melissa’s immediate response. We all loved its levels of garlic and spice.

I've never tried this particular brand of hot dog, but I have to be honest:

I've never wished for a "garlic and spice" flavor on my hot dog. It sounds awful. I'll make a point of trying one this summer, but this sounds like a hot dog that's trying to be something it's not.   

HEBREW NATIONAL KOSHER BEEF FRANKS, $6.29 FOR 7 “Classic,” Sam declared. “The people’s hot dog.”

This may be true, Sam, but it's not an actual assessment of the taste of the hot dog. Instead, it's evidence that you are not engaged in a blind taste test, and that cultural expectation and previous personal preferences have strongly influenced your perception of the hot dog. 

Sam's assessment is also incorrect. 

I like Hebrew National, too, but both Nathan's Famous Skinless Beef Franks and Oscar Mayer's Classic Wieners outsell Hebrew National by a wide margin, and neither is nearly as expensive.

Not exactly "the people's hot dog."  

The New York Times was taste-testing the kind of hot dog that you grill in the backyard, which is fine, but this also left off two of my favorite hot dogs:

The free hot dogs given out at the fire station after the Fourth of July parade in Monterey, MA, where my in-laws live.

There's something about a parade and a free hot dog that can't be beat.

The 7-11 hot dog, much maligned by people who have never tasted one themselves yet insist on mocking, disparaging, and dismissing these hot dogs because it is beyond their mental capacity to imagine that anything cooked in a convenience store could taste good.

This is a failure of imagination. An inability to see beyond their pre-ordained bubble. An unfortunate and regrettable degree of pretentiousness. A heinous prejudice against something they do not know or understand.

If you've tried a 7-11 hot dog and not enjoyed it, that's fine. Odd but fine. But to simply assume it's not good (and outwardly disparage it) is stupid.

For me, the 7-11 hot dog is tasty, convenient, and always there for me.

It's also a hot dog. My second favorite food. It's hard to screw up.  

 

Want me to find faith in God? Try a sex joke.

/

As a reluctant atheist, I find myself envious of those who possess an unwavering belief in a benevolent God and an everlasting life. 

I can't imagine how comforting that must be.

For the record, the actual God of The Bible is not exactly benevolent. I've read the book cover to cover three times, and I'm hear to report that the God portrayed in those pages does a lot of things that aren't close to benevolent, but that's an argument for another day.   

Occasionally I will meet people who try to convince me to believe. They share the good news. Assure me that God loves me. Encourage me to embrace a faith in a higher power.

At last night's Def Leppard/Journey concert, they stood on the street corners, warning me that I was about to listen to the devil's music.  

For more than a year, I lived with a family of Jehovah's Witnesses who encouraged me to enter into the ministry. Not only did they want me to believe, but they also recognized my ability to stand before an audience and speak clearly and convincingly, more than 20 years before I would discover this ability myself. 

Sadly, faith cannot be achieved on a cognitive level. You can't simply choose to believe in something that makes no sense to you. The belief in something we cannot see or touch cannot be achieved as easily as flipping a switch.

If you could, I would have done so long, long ago. 

But I will say this:

If you want to convince me to believe in a higher power, I'm far more likely to be drawn to the message of the first church than to the admonitions of the second.  

Threats are stupid. Warnings about the devil will never get anyone to believe in your message. A sign like this only manages to portray yourself as angry, frightened, intolerant, and awful company at a church picnic.  

But combine a little bit of religion with a joke about sex and I might be at least intrigued enough to pop my head into that church to see who was smart and bold enough to approve that clever and amusing sign.   

Speak Up Storytelling: The Podcast available today!

/

Elysha and I are thrilled to announce THE FIRST EPISODE OF OUR NEW PODCAST SPEAK UP STORYTELLING. 

Unlike most storytelling podcasts, which offer you one or more outstanding stories to listen to and enjoy, our podcast seeks to entertain while also providing some specific, actionable lessons on storytelling.

Each week we will bring our expertise in storytelling to you!  

In every episode, Elysha and I will listen to one of the many stories told and recorded at Speak Up over the last five years, followed by a lesson on storytelling based upon what we just heard. We'll talk about the effective strategies used by the storyteller. We'll offer tips on things like humor, stakes, transitions, suspense, and the ordering of content. We'll also suggest possible revisions to make the story even better.

Whether your goal is to someday take the stage and tell a story or simply to become a better storyteller in the workplace or your social life, this podcast is for you.  

In addition to story and instruction, we will also talk about finding stories in your everyday life, answer listener questions, offer recommendations, and try to make you laugh. We may also interview storytellers from time to time, as well as provide feedback on stories you submit to us. 

You can download the podcast wherever you get your podcasts: Apple Podcasts (iTunes), Stitcher, Overcast, Google Play, or you can listen to the first episode here. 

We'd love to hear what you think about the podcast and any questions you'd like us to answer on the podcast, so please send any questions or comments to speakupstorytelling@gmail.com. 

We would also love for you to rate the show. Ratings help other listeners find the show, so please take one minute to jump over to Apple Podcasts (or wherever you listen) and give us a rating and/or comment. 

This podcast has been a long time in the works. We hope you enjoy!

The threat of murder at midnight

/

Just past midnight, my friend, Rob spiked an unlikely flush on the river, causing Steve to shout for joy, Casey to clap loud and appreciatively, and Dan to sort of scream with surprise and and excitement. 

Tom, who had just been knocked out of the poker tournament by the unlikely diamond, said nothing. 

A moment later, I received a text message that struck honest-to-goodness fear in the men around the poker table. 

It was one of those moments when you silently thank the universe for allowing you to somehow marry the bad-ass women capable of sending a text message like that. 

We went on to play for another two hours, but it was a much quieter bunch of guys after that.

Storyworthy in my hands!

/

One of the many most exciting moments as an author is the moment when the first copy fo your book arrives at your doorstep. This was the fifth time that I experienced such a moment, and I remember each of them with perfectly clarity. 

The tearing open of a box. The ripping of a mailing envelope. The nervous excitement as you reach for an object that took years to create. 

Behold. My first nonfiction title. I couldn't be more excited.

The forward is written by my hero, author and storyteller Dan Kennedy.

It's dedicated to the founder of The Moth, George Dawes Green, the host of The Moth's podcast, Dan Kennedy, and the storytelling genius and creative guru of The Moth, Catherine Burns.

It was written on the shoulders of Elysha Dicks, who supports everything that I do. 

Hidden within the pages is the editorial wisdom of so many of my friends, including Matthew Shepard, David Golder, Jeni Bonaldo, Amy Miller, C. Flanagan Flynn, and others who I am forgetting. 

It's filled with the lessons of storytellers who have stood beside me on stages around the world and students who have joined me in workshops to learn the craft of storytelling.

Each one of them has taught me so much and contributed so much to this book.   

Now it's real. It's been transformed from idea and thought to a device that is capable of conquering the barriers of time and space.

Think about it:

Ten years from now, in some city in northern China (where we recently sold the foreign rights to the book), a future storyteller will pick up this book and read the words of a writer living half a world away who wrote those words a decade ago.

Books are magic. I'm holding magic in my hands. I'm so excited.   

A surprise breakfast with their friend. Not a potential heart attack for their father.

/

The best part of my heart scare on Tuesday morning was our children, or more specifically, the way we managed them during this potential crisis. 

When we decided to call for an ambulance, a number of decisions were made:

1. When Elysha made the call, she requested that the ambulance refrain from using a siren so the kids wouldn't be frightened. The dispatcher said this wasn't possible, but when an EMT called back to check on my condition and request that I take aspirin immediately, Elysha again requested no siren. He agreed, so the ambulance pulled up in front of the house quietly. 

The kids were awake and aware that I was waiting for the ambulance, but it wasn't the loud, frightening version of an emergency response vehicle, but more akin to a medically-equipped Uber. 

Just a ride to the doctor for Daddy.

In fact, the kids never even saw the ambulance. Neither wanted to see it, knowing it would make them nervous, so instead they sat together in the kitchen, watching a TV show on the iPad as it pulled up in front of our home.  

2. Elysha told the kids that I would be going to the hospital via ambulance because "I wasn't feeling well" and "the doctors wanted to see me soon." I stood beside her as she explained, my chest in incredible pain and unable to catch my breath, nodding in agreement. 

In response to this news, the kids immediately hugged Elysha, leaving their Daddy to stand alone, wondering why they were hugging the person who was breathing just fine and not the guy who was afraid he might die at any moment.

Sometimes being a father is hard.   

3. Elysha called our friend, Kathy, immediately after calling the ambulance. She leapt out of bed and came to our house to get the kids to school so Elysha could join me at the hospital.

My mom passed away 11 years ago, and I don't really know my father, and Elysha's parents live more than two hours away, so having someone like Kathy (or the many others who we could've called had Kathy been away) is such a blessing. Elysha and I are fortunate to have an enormous group of friends who our children love dearly and who would drop everything for us, and knowing that means the world to us.  

4. The one mistake made that morning was made by me. I found myself strapped to a gurney in the back of the ambulance in front of our home, preparing to leave, when I realized that I hadn't said goodbye to our kids. No kisses. No hugs. Nothing. In an effort to keep them calm, I just walked out the door when I saw the ambulance pull up. 

This might have been better for them, but for a father thinking he might be having a heart attack and wondering if he would see tomorrow, the idea that I was leaving my kids behind without a simple goodbye was crushing. I couldn't stop thinking about this until I finally saw them again later that day.

5. When I returned home that afternoon, Kathy and the kids were returning from some after school ice cream. When I asked them how their day was, both said it was great. They were smiling and happy.

Charlie's teacher (who had been alerted to my emergency) had made him "Star Student" of the day, which was a beautiful and I'm sure calculated decision that was also so appreciated.  

Charlie said that one of the best parts of the day was when Kathy showed up for breakfast. 

"That was a great surprise," he said.

"She should come for breakfast more," Clara said. 

In my children's minds, Tuesday was the day when their friend, Kathy, came over for a surprise breakfast and ice cream after school and their father went to an unexpected doctor's appointment. That was what they will remember most, and I'm so glad. While Elysha and I were under incredible pressure and feeling more frightened than ever before, they were happily enjoying breakfast with their friend. 

Later, Charlie asked me what it was like to ride in an ambulance for the first time. Clara took a ride in an ambulance years ago after a peanut allergy scare, and although Charlie was riding alongside his sister that day, he was still an infant and has no recollection of the incident. 

I laughed at his question. "It wasn't my first time in an ambulance, buddy," I said. "That was at least my ninth ride in the back of an ambulance."

Charlie shook his head in disgust. "You should really be more careful, Dad. Also, did you take pictures of the machines for me?"

I had not, of course. "I was a little busy," I told Charlie, but he was disappointed. A little annoyed, even. But if that was the thing that upset him the most on our frightening, painful, stress-filled day, I'll take it.  

I made two instantaneous, temporary friends yesterday, and it meant everything to me.

/

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, a total of 20 healthcare professionals assisted me on Tuesday during my cardiac scare, and every single one of them was professional, kind, and skilled at their job.

I appreciated the efforts of everyone involved beyond measure. 

That said, some were better than others, and truly, all it took was a little bit of authenticity and connection to make me feeler safer, better, and less afraid.  

Two in particular:

My first nurse in the cardiac unit, whose name I cannot recall but who remembered my name and used it constantly. Rather than reverting to "Sir" or "Mr. Dicks,"  I was "Matt" every time she entered the room, which instantly made me feel known and safe. Elysha had yet to arrive at the hospital, so I was alone and more frightened than I was willing to admit. Having someone call me by my name without hesitation made me feel less alone.

It also gave me the courage to ask her how I was doing, which I had been afraid to ask until that moment. As she turned to exit the room at one point, I said, "Am I in trouble here? Am I going to be okay?" 

Rather than pausing by the doorway to answer my question, she stopped everything, turned, stepped close to my bed, and spoke softly. She said, "We don't know it it's your heart yet, but we have different pods here, and you're not in the red pod. That means you're not one of our most critical patients. I can't promise that there's nothing wrong with your heart, but the doctors can't be too worried about you if you're here. Okay? And I'll be here all morning, watching you like a hawk."

That moment meant the world to me. Rather than speaking to a medical professional, I felt like I was speaking to a human being who saw me and understood that I needed an honest, authentic connection with another human being.

For the first time all morning, I relaxed a little.  

It's also so easy to think that you've been forgotten when you're lying in a hospital bed in the cardiac unit, listening to the intercom constantly call for doctors and nurses to seemingly every corner of the hospital. There are hundreds of patients in need of care, and you start to feel like one of many rather than someone of import.

Time also crawls by in a hospital, so if your chest hurts like hell and you still think you might be having a heart attack, the absence of a doctor or nurse for even 15 minutes can be scary. "I'll be watching you like a hawk" were words that I clung to as I lay there alone and afraid.

A nurse named Emily, who assisted with my stress test, treated me with equal kindness and authenticity. She had to remove about a dozen sticky EKG pads from my chest before shaving my chest and reapplying new pads. It was not pleasant. Others had already removed and replaced several of these pads in the cardiac unit, but Emily turned the ripping and tearing into a team effort. It wasn't something that she had to do. It was something we did together. She strategized with me. Apologized before each rip. Winced with each tear. Empathized with my pain. Celebrated when we were finished.

She was my teammate. My partner. We were in this together. 

As she shaved my chest, she never stopped smiling. She asked me questions about my wife and kids. My job. She cracked jokes about what Elysha would think of my patchwork of chest hair. When I asked what would happen during my stress test, the took my hand and told me that it was no big deal. A simple walk on a treadmill while doctors and nurses watched my heart. "A room full of people just for you."

Once again, I didn't feel alone. Didn't feel like one of hundreds of patients. I felt important.  

After she prepped me for the stress test, it was time for Emily to go to lunch, and I was honestly sad to see her go. The doctors and nurses who were present during my stress test were excellent, but Emily felt like a friend. I only spent about 15 minutes with her, but it was the easiest, most relaxed 15 minutes of my entire time at the hospital, despite the pain of ripping pads from my body and what could've been an awkward moment shaving my chest.

She was real. Authentic. Funny. Honest. I felt like she was a friend who also happened to be my nurse. She made me feel safe and known. She made the hospital feel smaller and less intimidating. She is someone I will never forget.

And she accomplished all of this in just 15 minutes. 

I've been working with patients, family members, and caregivers at Yale-New Haven Hospital this year, teaching them to tell their stories to doctors and nurses so patient care can be improved. I've been delivering keynotes at conferences for caregivers and other professionals in the healthcare industry, talking about the value of storytelling, connection, authenticity, and vulnerability when interacting with patients and their families. I've consulted with organizations who administer healthcare programs throughout the state of Connecticut. Next week I'll be delivering another keynote at a conference in Boston.  

I've talked about this topic with thousands of healthcare professionals, but yesterday I was able to witness it firsthand. I experienced the difference between a competent professional who does their job in a kind, respectful manner and a competent professional who is also authentic, real, and honest. I witnessed the power of a healthcare professional to put a frightened patient at ease with a few well chosen words and something as simple as physical proximity, the holding of a hand, the softening of a voice, and a smile.

We are at our most vulnerable when we are lying in a hospital bed, wondering if our life is about to change forever. Wondering if we'll ever see our children again. Wondering if the book we haven't finished writing will remain unfinished. Wondering if our dreams for tomorrow will ever be realized. Wondering if the professionals taking care of us are simply doing their jobs or really care about us. See us. Wondering if they want to know us as something more than numbers and beeps and a series of incomplete tasks.

Every single person who took care of me on Tuesday was excellent, but two women not only kept me safe but made me feel safe. They made me feel known. Important. They treated me in the same way I would treat a friend. For a brief moment, I felt like they were my friends. Instantaneous intimacy established through a moment of honesty, authenticity, and vulnerability. 

Two women who turned a day of fear and anxiety into something a little less frightening. They made a terrible day a little less terrible.

I'll never forget them.

Not a heart attack after all, but an eventful day nonetheless.

/

I woke up yesterday morning with terrible chest pains and struggling to breathe. I fed the cats, sat down at my computer to write, and tried to pretend that I wasn't in pain. 

About 15 minutes later, at 5:45 AM, I decided that I might be in trouble. I was starting to sweat and the pain was getting worse. I couldn't catch my breath. Just as I was debating what to do, I received a text message from Elysha asking me to come upstairs. It was 5:49 AM.

It was the first time in my life that Elysha texted me before 6:00 AM. Maybe before 7:00 AM. 

How did she know I was in trouble? Has she installed cameras that I don't know about? Are we so psychically connected that she can feel my pain?

No. She had heard a strange sound for the second day in a row and wanted to know what it was. We pushed that question aside for another day and finally called for help and I took my sixth ride to the hospital in the back of an ambulance.

I spent most of the day at Hartford Hospital, undergoing every possible heart test you can imagine. X-ray, EKG, an ultrasound of my heart, and a stress test to name a few. In the end, the doctors determined that my heart was not the problem. In fact, it turns out that my heart is in outstanding shape.

Instead, I had either pulled or slightly torn a chest muscle while hiking The Freedom Trail with students the previous day. I was carrying a backpack loaded with water, food, medications, and the like, and the weight of the backpack and the length of the walk had apparently done the damage. The damaged muscles tightened overnight, and when I awoke and started moving, the pain began.

The doctor explained that pulled or torn chest muscles and acid reflux are commonly mistaken for heart attacks, even by medical personnel, so although they, too, suspected a heart attack for a while, it wasn't surprising when they realized the true cause of my pain. 

Frightening possibility averted. My chest still hurts like hell this morning, and it's still a struggle to breathe, but muscle pain is nothing compared with the alternatives.  

As I went through an emotional, painful, and interesting day, I made several observations:

  1. A total of 22 medical professionals helped me over the course of the day, including a dispatcher, an EMT over the phone, 3 EMT's onboard the ambulance, 2 police officers, 4 nurses, a physician's assistant, a phlebotomist, 4 doctors, an X-ray technician, 2 medical transport personnel, and 2 unidentified hospital personnel. It makes you realize how impressive and extensive our healthcare system is. There are a lot of people just standing by at the hospital, waiting to help us in a moment's notice.  
  2. There is no authenticity in the back of an ambulance. EMT's speak like they are high on valium. Overly calm and syrupy sweet. They communicate with one another other in non-specific pronouns and silent signals. One of them said, "okey dokey" three times. They are persistently positive, even when they have failed twice to get an IV into a patient who is terrified of needles and is now bleeding down his forearm.
  3. I always find it strange how a person can spend 30 minutes making sure you aren't dying or 15 minutes carefully shaving your chest and assuring you that everything will be fine and then step out of your life forever like they were never there. Brief moments of intense intimacy followed by an instantaneous and permanent departures.  
  4. Two of my doctors were Speak Up fans and recognized Elysha and me. One of them said, "Don't worry. I like your stories too much to let anything happen to you." 
  5. Whether or not chest pain awakens a patient from sleep or begins after the patient has awakened naturally is apparently a very big deal. It was my most frequently asked question yesterday, followed by "Is your heart rate always so low?"
  6. I apparently have the heart rate of a world class athlete. 48 BPM when I was discharged,  but it went as low as 28 BPM at one point. When I asked if this was a good thing, my favorite nurse of the day said, "You're not exactly a world class athlete, so maybe not."
  7. I have been meditating every morning for more than five years. That allows me to calm my body and mind when things around me are hectic, terrifying, and even painful. Credit Plato Karafelis for encouraging this years ago. It's made an enormous difference in my life, especially on days like yesterday. 
  8. If the gym had doctors and nurses standing beside the treadmills offering encouragement like they did during my stress test, the world would be a lot healthier and a lot thinner. 
  9. The constant beeping of the cardiac unit surely drives those doctors and nurses to drink.
  10. I purposely changed into a loose fitting tee shirt and shorts while waiting for the ambulance to alive. I also grabbed a phone charger and my headphones. Even in the midst of what I thought might be a heart attack, I'm still a Boy Scout.  

I'll have some more meaningful and in depth comments about the day as the week goes on. As one of the doctors who knew me said, "I bet today is giving you some great new material."

Ruth and Bush

/

This is a photograph of future President George H. W. Bush and Babe Ruth in 1948. 

The cancer-stricken Babe Ruth donated an original manuscript of his autobiography to Yale University. He presented the gift during an on-field ceremony at Yale Field, where he was greeted by the Bulldogs’ baseball team captain, George H.W. Bush.

I love this photograph. I love to imagine what these two men - the greatest baseball player in history and the war hero-turned Yale scholar - were thinking this day. What were their lives like? Did they have any idea that the lives of two historic men were intersecting that day? Did they have any idea how they would both be forever remembered by history?

Ruth would die months later from his cancer, though his legacy and records have stood the test of time.

Bush would go on to be President of the United States, and 70 years later, is still alive and kicking. 

It's photos like this that make me yearn for a time machine so I could go back to that moment and see all that a photograph does not allow you see or experience.

So many white people...

/

The White House hosted military spouses last week. Here is a photograph of the group, released by the White House.

Noticing anything odd? 

It's admittedly odd that the entire group appears to be female, given that about 15% of the armed forces is female, so there are presumably some male military spouses in America. 

But much more disturbing is the color of this group. America's armed forces are 40% non-white. The odds of a group of 52 military spouses containing no people of color are about 1 in 300 billion. 

My physicist friend Charles calculated it for me. 

The only way this group doesn't include a single non-white members is if the White House deliberately avoided inviting non-white spouses.

The blatant racism of Donald Trump and his administration never ceases to amaze me.

Then again, let us not forget the color of the White House and Republican Congressional interns for last year. 

I'm not supposed to be happy today.

/

Charlie came downstairs this morning and said, "I just woke up Mommy and gave her all of her Mother's Day presents."

"I wish you had waited," I said, thinking that Elysha had probably wished the same thing. As cute as Charlie may be, opening his presents at 6:40 AM was probably not what she had envisioned when she planned her day. "I wanted to be there when you gave her your presents," I added. "To take pictures. And I haven't even seen your presents yet. You hid them so fast that I didn't have a chance to look at them."

Charlie groaned. Rolled his eyes. Shook his head in disgust. "Dad, it's Mother's Day. I don't have to make you happy today. You have your own day to be happy. It's called Father's Day. And it will happen someday. But you're not allowed to be happy every day. Don't you know that?"

I've apparently been far too ambitious with my life goals, at least according to my son. 

I guess there's something to be said for a low bar. 

I may be relegated to unhappiness and despair today (at least according to Charlie), but I hope that all you mothers out there have a happy, happy Mother's Day. 

Elysha the Unstoppable

/

One day before Mother's Day, I thought I'd tell you a remarkable mother story about my wife, Elysha Dicks.

About five years ago, Elysha and the kids were having dinner at a local restaurant with a friend and his two children. Clara was four years-old at the time, and Charlie was still an infant.  

About 10 minutes after sitting down at the table, a waiter spilled a full glass of wine on Clara. She was drenched in red wine. She was not happy in a very four year-old way.

Elysha picked up Clara and exited the restaurant, leaving infant Charlie with her dinner companion and his two small children.

She brought our daughter to the car to clean her up and quickly determined that Clara’s shirt was not salvageable. She offered Clara one of her brother’s shirts, which happened to be in the car. It would be tight, but it might work.

Clara refused in a very unhappy four year-old way. 

She offered the shirt off her own back.

Clara refused.

She offered to reverse the unsalvageable shirt as a temporary solution.

Clara refused.

As any parent will tell you, forcing any of these shirts onto a raging four year-old would’ve been impossible.

Elysha needed a shirt of some kind for Clara so that they could, at minimum, reenter the restaurant to reclaim our baby and return home. 

Naturally, he phone was still at the table, so having our friend bring Charlie to the car was not possible. 

With no other options, Elysha crossed the street and walked over to the nearest house. She knocked on the door. A man and a woman answered.

Elysha explained the situation and asked the couple if she could borrow a tee shirt for the evening.

Take a moment and let that sink in. In need of a shirt for my daughter to wear so that she could reenter a restaurant and reclaim our baby, my wife walked to a nearby house, knocked on a stranger’s door, and requested a tee shirt.

The couple gave her a white tee shirt and sent her on her way.

Clara ultimately refused to wear the newly acquired shirt. Instead, she chose to turn her wine-strained shirt around instead.

Elysha and Clara re-entered the restaurant, calmed our now-screaming baby, and completed the meal, which ended up costing them nothing. 

She's incredible. 

Do you know any other person on the planet who would attempt such a thing?

I didn't think so, then it occurred to me that Elysha’s solution was remarkably similar (albeit more ethical and decidedly less criminal) to something I did when I was young and in desperate need of gas money in New Hampshire.

Nearly identical, in fact.

I’ve always thought that Elysha and I were cut from the same cloth. I was just cut from the raggedy, soiled edges of the cloth and she was carefully cut from the pristine middle.