Broken Neck Part 3

Yesterday I got a haircut and as per usual, the hair dresser saw the long scar on my neck. The automatic conversation starter had me telling the story again. So here we are with part 3.

It was a time for healing. My body tends to heal fast and because of the severity of my accident and lack of any permanent damage, the doctor’s decided to let my neck heal on its own.  I wore 4 neck braces during the 9 months that it would take me to heal. The first was a soft collar that is used in the majority of neck injuries. I only wore it for 6 days until I wore the harness, (see part 1) for the next 7 months.

I had regular checkups at the hospital. After 7 months my vertebrae had not healed enough. Based on the time the bone was taking to mend I was given a choice. I could either wear a neck brace for the next year or I could have surgery and be free in a month or two. After a moment of hesitation I went with the surgery option.

I had what is called a fusion. They cut open the back of my neck to access the vertebrae and they took soft bone tissue from my right hip, (after cutting that open too). They used the soft bone and put it between C4 and C3. The vertebrae use this tissue to fuse each other to create one vertebra. To keep the vertebrae from moving independently during this process, a wire is tied through the bones. The wire is eventually absorbed by the body and the small holes in the vertebrae are also healed.

What makes my neck a little more unique is that the bones decided to grab a hold of C5 and add it to the collection. Most people have 7 vertebrae, I now have 5, 2 on top, one giant one in the middle, and two on the bottom. It sort of looks like this: (C1)(C2)(C3C4C5)(C6)(C7). I wish I could describe the surgery but as I was knocked out, I can’t. I also can’t remember how long I was under the knife, but I seem to recall around 4 to 5 hours.

What is interesting to me is that those hours are gone from my memory. I have always had a good sense of time but those hours were instantaneous. I was lying on the table with the mask over my face counting down from 10 and I got to 7. A split second later I heard my Mom calling my name. She said, “Greg it’s time to wake up. Your surgery is over.” I opened my eyes, said something and went back to sleep. I slept 21 hours and grew 1 inch. I went in for my surgery 6’1” and when I stood up I was 6’2”.

After the surgery I graduated to my third neck brace. It was a hard plastic thing with metal and leather. It was awful. I hated it. I don’t think I have ever admitted this to anyone, but I took it off all the time. After 7 months I had had enough. I still get chills every time I think about how careless I was with my neck after the surgery. I’m pretty sure I kept my Angels busy 24/7.

After 8 months I was given my final neck brace, a foam two piece with hard plastic that I was allowed to take off. I took it off all the time. I was so close to freedom I could taste it. Then 9 months later I was done with it. My neck had healed and was once again able to feel the breeze on the skin of my neck and hopefully never wear a neck brace again. It was a strange and wonderful feeling to finally be free.

I had survived without any permanent damage and only lost 10% of the movement in my neck. My life would never be the same again and every time I tell this story I feel the pain both physically and emotionally. I have yet to fully understand the significance this experience has had or will have on my life. Without a doubt it changed me an alerted my character. Perhaps one day I will have an epiphany and I will fall to my knees and weep.

Childhood Nightmares

After a sleep plagued by one of the worst nightmares I have had in a long time, I am reminded of two reoccurring dreams from my childhood. I had both these dreams on a nightly basis for years and they still influence my emotions and some of my deepest fears. The first deals with my Mom and the second a big ass dog.

The first dream was always short and there was never any audible dialog. My Mom would be talking to me, I would scream at her and she would turn and start running away. I would start crying and try to follow her down an endless flight of stairs, never quite catching up, but I was always able to see her legs and feet. Some night this would go on for flight after flight after flight, (of stairs). Thankfully, some nights it was over quickly.

The second dream always started off normal. I would be leaving my school with my best friend Christopher. When we got to the back alley behind my friend’s home off of Hawthorne, I would start to sense a darkness following us. The fear would begin to creep in so I would always start to run. In the dream I only look back once, just to see. Every time there was a shadow bearing down on me and Christopher was gone. I would jump into a wooden box at my friend’s house that was used to store garbage cans and close the lid. As the darkness went passed I would wait a few moments and then open the lid just to peak.  A giant dog would jump in mouth wide open and just before the teeth took hold of my head I would wake up. This dream never changed and I was never able to wake up before the dream ended.

There are many more dreams from my childhood that I remember and maybe one day I will go back and write about those as well. For now, feel free to psychoanalyze me.

Sliding On Ice

J, Sammy and I were in St Petersburg Russia some time in November walking around Peter and Paul’s Cathedral, (I think). There was this huge open courtyard where people were standing taking pictures, playing in the snow and sliding on patches of ice. As we meandered through the vast open space, we came across a very long smooth patch of ice. I was wearing my comfortable dress shoes that allowed me to slide like I was wearing ice skates; without the control that skates provide.

I took a running start and gracefully hit the ice trying my best to keep my balance. At the exact same time and young teenager started his run on the other side of the ice patch. He also hit the ice with poise. We both looked up and our eyes locked and widened ever so slightly.

Now if you were him, what would go through your mind if a 300lbs 6’2” man was sliding toward you at a fairly good clip? I guess it would be like an average U-Haul truck about to have a head on collision with Toyota Corolla. As we got closer to each other, I really wished either one of us was wearing better shoes because no matter how hard we tried, the impending collision was unavoidable.

Visually it was like a pinball bouncing off a bumper. We collided and he bounced off me to the left and fell flat on his back. I stayed up for just a moment longer and down I went too. We were both ok but we laughed, smiled at each other and shook hands. I hope that young man will always remember that day.

Disgusting Childhood Memory

This afternoon at work we were talking about our earliest memories and it got me thinking about one that was, for lack of a better word, disgusting. For those of you who are squeamish about bodily functions, you should stop reading now. However, if you enjoy a good laugh based on childhood stupidity, please read on.

I was around 5 years old and I was sick with the flu and all the wonderful symptoms that go along with it. I had been puking all day and I was getting tired of going to the bathroom. In my infant wisdom and lack of common sense, I thought that gravity would keep it all down.

I was trying to get comfortable in my parents living room sitting on a brown reclining chair. When the urge came, I tilted my head back and pointed my face to the ceiling. The instant my muscles contracted, the projectile vomit left my body, flew straight up in the air, hung there for just a moment and came right back down. I was covered in the wet, chunky guck that my body had rejected.

In retrospect I learned that sometimes the body is a strong enough force to go against the laws of physics; even if it was just for a moment.

Broken Neck Part 2

I was finally able to go home. Now don’t get me wrong. As a 14 year old in the children’s hospital I was having a good time. I was able to play video games, have friends and family over all the time. I got so many toys, comic books and candy that it looked like I was the most popular kid on the wing. But whatever fun I was having, it would be years before I realized the impact this accident would have on the rest of my life. The simple things that we take for granted every day were never the same. I had to learn new ways of living.

Up until my first night in the hospital I was a stomach sleeper. I would lay down on my front, pull the blankets up around my neck and then sleep with either ear on the pillow depending on my mood. I had to learn how to sleep all over again. The first night I did not sleep well. It wasn’t the hospital or even the hard bed; when I used to have trouble sleeping, I would move to the floor and sleep on the carpet. The problem was sleeping on my back. Having that feeling of my eyes rolling back and the snoring drove me nuts in the first few months. I also had a drooling problem and without the help of gravity, that had nowhere to go. Learning how to sleep again was really annoying.

Safety was a huge concern for the doctors and my family. Having such a severe injury required a complete change of routine. I couldn’t have a shower just in case I would slip and fall. It also meant that I could not have a bath unless I had help. In my stubbornness, I refused to let anyone see my naked body. The only option left was a sponge bath that I administered myself. Washing my hair was a unique challenge. To be safe, my Mom washed my hair, but my Dad came up with a brilliant system to make it work. He got a basin to collect the water, took a garbage bag and cut a drain hole on one of the bottom corners. The open end was positioned around my head and neck, allowing the water to flow down through the bag into the basin. It was really well done.

There was also an issue with smell. I spent most of my time doing nothing during the summer playing video games and watching movies or TV. I was not very active so the issue was not what you think. The problem was with the chin support. Having something against your skin 24 hrs a day was gross. My chin and the support started to smell like really stinky feet. I hated it. The smell was always there. After a few months I was given a replacement pad which I tried to keep as clean as possible. There are still some times when I can still feel the grim, especially if I get a whiff of that smell.

The concern for my safety went beyond just daily routine. I was no longer able to play any contact sports. It was obvious that while my neck was healing, I had to avoid any mild form of stress or trauma to my body. After I healed, my neck was not properly balanced, (I’ll explain that in part 3). This prevented me from playing football. I think I would have made an excellent football player. We will never know now.

I should mention that I also no longer took public transit. I never fully understood why I couldn’t ride the bus. Over the next 2 years, up to the time I got my driver’s license, my Mom became my chauffeur. I got rides to and from school every day. The only theory for this change was just for my Mom’s sanity. I did and still do appreciate everything that my Mom and Dad did for me during this time of my life.

The Shower Event

For a big man I’m light on my feet and rock solid on the ground. I can ride the subway without hanging on to a railing to keep my balance. However, I have been known to fall on occasion and when I do it can be a spectacular event with significant damage to me, another person(s) or a thing.

This is a story of how I destroyed property and had to pay $100USD to make amends. I was traveling through Europe with J and Sammy after our student exchange program in Lithuania. We had been through Germany and we were now staying at a wonderful bed and breakfast outside Salzburg Austria. After two nights of sleeping on a train we finally had a bed to sleep in, a hot shower and a wonderful breakfast.

The home we stayed in was beautiful and clean. The rooms were big, one with a double bed and the other a queen. We slept like the dead and in the morning all of us did not want to get up. After not having a shower for 2 days, I could almost feel the warm water washing away the grime. So I got up and headed for the bathroom. As luck would have it, I was the only one who would shower that day.

The bathroom was tiled white and immaculately clean. The tub was an old cast iron beast. One of those tubs with the claws for feet. There was a piece of glass that was attached to the wall near the shower head that extended about 3 ft along the side of the tub to keep the water from splashing all over. The shower/tub did not have a shower curtain so I had to be extra careful not to make too much of a mess.

I got in the shower and started to get clean. I used shampoo and lathered up my greasy hair. I used soap and a washcloth and started working on my 6’2” 310lbs body. At this point I was covered in soap from head to ankle, letting the suds do their work. After all, it could be days before another shower like this. I started to wash my right foot and then it happened. I have wondered why I put my foot down because what happened next was one of those spectacular events.

When my soapy foot hit the tub it was like driving 100 km/hr and hitting black ice. My balance was gone and I was falling backwards toward the piece of glass. I couldn’t see very well because the shampoo was getting into my eyes. I reached up to grab the shower head to regain my balance. Well as I mentioned before, I’m a big guy. I ripped the shower head right off the wall, fell backwards through the glass shattering it. I ended up on my back, naked and covered with soap lying on the tile floor. The water was spraying all over the place. It was something.

After the initial “holy shit I can’t believe that just happened” moment passed, I got up turned the water off and checked to see if I was bleeding. I still couldn’t see very well so I got back in the shower and turned the water back on and rinsed off. There was no blood so I was ok, but the shower was no longer available for use. All that cost me $100USD. Not too bad.

Perhaps the funniest part of the story is what J and Sammy experienced. They were just down the hall still lying in bed. When they heard the crash they looked at each other, laughed and said, “Ha ha, Greg fell.”

The Kite

When JJ, my grandpa passed away, I was in Toronto trying to decide whether to fly home to see him one more time or wait until the funeral. I had spent 3 days speaking with my parents going over all our options. My mom spoke with her dad and he said that he knew. He knew what I was thinking and how I feel. He said that he always kept a special place in his heart just for me. He said, “I know Greg.” I miss him very much and I regret not going to Winnipeg to say goodbye.

Somehow I want to write to show my respect for a truly extraordinary man. The only thing that I can think of is to tell stories and as I have said before, I love a good story.

I was 10. My parents had bought a new house on Foxdale and sold their house on Hawthorne. The home on Foxdale was a 2 bedroom bungalow that was being renovated into a 4 bedroom with a second floor above the garage. We did not have a home for a long time so we stayed at my grandparent’s house. I have so many memories from that summer. My grandparent’s house was a fantastic playground for me.

You see, my grandpa was a working man. He loved to build things with his hands. He had tools that I still don’t know how to use. His garage was full of gardening tools, power tools, a drill press, table saw, router table and a seeming endless supply of wood. During the summer we spent at his house, he was building his garden using lattice. He could have gone to the store and bought prefabricated lattice but he would rather build it himself from scratch.

Once again my imagination took over. I was looking at all this thin, light weight wood that my grandpa was going to use for his lattice. I could just imagine the kite that I could build. I took one piece and cut it up. I used twine to tie each section into the shape of a kite and used a garbage bag for the skin and tail. It was a remarkable kite, brown and green with duck tape. I was sure it would fly.

Ten kites later, I was out of wood and crushed by my defeat. I was so sure it would work. When my grandpa came into the garage he saw the mess of his wood and how unhappy I was. Here I was in my own head just beginning to realize that I had used the wood without asking my grandpa. The guilt and fear began to creep in. He looked at me with his eyes filled with understanding and grace. Put his arm around me and asked me to make sure I cleaned up the mess.

He knew me better than anyone and I love him dearly.

Scars

I have scars all over. I think that I hurt myself every summer so bad that I always needed stitches. Needles and pain don’t really bother me and I do not get queasy at the sight of blood; I have been in a lot of physical pain in my life. Here are three short, how I got those, stories.

I had three stitches in my head, right on the top of my crown almost in the middle. If my head was the target for lawn darts, my cousin who threw the dart would have won. Oh that’s right, we were playing lawn darts and it did hit me on the top of my head. We were playing in my Grandpa’s front yard. I wanted to see the dart hit the ground so I was standing by the target. My Cousin Mitch threw the dart as high as he could and then yelled at me to move. I ran 10’ away from the target and then thud. I got hit in the noggin. Three stitches later I was a poster boy for why that toy got banned.

I almost lost the baby toe on my right foot. I was at my Uncle’s cabin in the Whiteshell. We were just having a great time swimming and going for boat rides. The Whiteshell is full of islands most of which have cabins on them. You have no choice but to get around on boats. We were getting ready to leave so I stepped in our boat. I did not know that my toe had gone into a small draining hole under the front bench. The boat was aluminum so the sharp metal cut a full circle around my toe. We wrapped the foot in a shirt and a towel and rushed to the local hospital. I don’t know how many stitches I got, but it was an intense situation.

The last scar story happened to my hand. I have a 1 inch scar on the upper part of my right palm just above the joint that connects my ring and middle finger to my hand, the knuckle. It was winter and I was playing during recess at John Prichard, my elementary school. I was standing near the chain link fence and I slipped. I tried to grab the cross bar to keep myself from falling, but instead I put a sharp prong from the top of the chain fence through my palm, between my fingers and up into the skin on the back of my hand. The spike did not break through the other side. I ripped my hand off the fence, held my hand as tight as I could and went on with my day. I did not get stitches for this one.

First Movie

The first movie I watched on the big screen was Disney’s Robin Hood at the King’s Theatre in Winnipeg on Portage Ave. I watched it with my Grandpa, JJ.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Singing In Germany

I sang Mozart’s Mass in C Minor last night for over 2 hours. Our choir is preparing for our Legendary Haydn/Mozart concert on April 9.11. Every Tuesday we rehearse from 7:30 to 10:00. I look forward to it every week. It is safe to assume that I love to sing. I sing whenever I get a chance or my spirit moves me.

This story is an example of how an opportunity to sing fused with my spirit. After going on a student exchange program in Lithuania, I toured around Europe with two friends, J and Sammy. On our 3^rd day we were in the south of Germany staying in a town called Fussen tucked away in the Bavarian mountains. We took a local bus out into the country side to see the castle that inspired the Disney “Cinderella Castle.” It is called Neuschwanstien. I will save everyone from a history lesson but it is a very interesting castle.

We wandered around the grounds and eventually decided to pay for an English tour. At the time I enjoyed learning about history so it was lots of fun. Of course the highlight of the tour has to do with singing. To my delight, we entered a grand hall that was built specifically for private performances. It was beautiful. I was not really listening to our tour guide. I was looking around. There was something really special about this room. My ears perked up when the tour guide said that this performance hall was acoustically perfect.

I went from being a young man in my 20s to a kid in a candy store where everything is free. I was nervous because I had to sing and I did not know how it could happen. There were approximately 15 people in our tour group plus the guide. I looked around for signs or security and found none. My mind was all over the place trying to solve my problem. My heart was racing. I had to find a way. I had to sing.

My chance came as I was lagging behind at the back of the group. We were lead to a small door with a tiny staircase that went down 2 stories to the kitchen. I made sure that I was the last person to go down. As you may have guessed, I stopped at the top, turned around and went back into the hall. Standing in the middle of the room I sang O Holy Night from start to finish. If there is anything that I would equate to soaring through the clouds like a bird, it was singing in that hall.

JJ Riediger

I have been thinking about my Grandpa. His name was J.J. Riediger. He was my favourite person in the world. I mean that. Of all the people that are in my life, my Grandpa was special. He died not long ago and I miss him terribly. He was a peaceful man with what could have been limitless wisdom. I was completely shocked that most of the people I know from the Mennonite Brethren Community were at his funeral. I think they were equally surprised that I was JJ’s grandson. I realized that there was so much to the life of my Grandpa that I did not know. In his death he became more of a mystery and even more special.

My hope is that I can remember him and somehow through my words give justice to our relationship. This is a man that I never want to forget and now that I have set my lofty goal, I need to start somewhere.

When JJ retired from the MB conference, buttons and a t-shirt were created with a drawing of his smiling face. The words “Trust Me” were written underneath. There is no question that at some point after meeting JJ, you would hear those words come out of his mouth. I’ve heard it many times. However, to be fair, I did not trust at first.

My Grandpa used to get up at 5:30 in the morning to have breakfast. Whenever I stayed over I wanted him to wake me up so I could eat with him. He always said he would, but I did not believe him. I needed to make sure I got up. I made a plan. During the day I had collected a spool of thread, a tin camping kettle and various tin plates and bowls. I was around 8 years old and I did not know about an alarm clock yet. Being a heavy sleeper, I knew that I needed a noise to wake me up.

The room that I was sleeping in was across the hall from my Grandparents bedroom. When I thought both of them were sleeping, I set my plan in motion. I took the thread and tied one end to a cold air return vent. I ran the thread across the door frame of their bedroom at shin level. Then I looped the thread around the bottom door hinge, ran it up to the top hinge, across the hall and looped it around the two hinges on my door. It took a moment to figure the next part out because I needed some height to ensure enough noise to wake me up.

My Grandma’s sewing machine from the early 1900’s was in my room. I looped the thread around the spindle on the side of the cast iron beast and tied the tin kettle 2’ off the ground above the assortment of tin plates and bowls. It was really late so I fell asleep with ease. At around 5:30 in the morning, the kettle dropped, hit the plates and bowls and scared me awake. I jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway. My Grandpa turned and looked at me. There was a small grin on his face. His eyes looked through me like he knew my deepest secrets.

I was a little scarred. He was looking at me not saying a word. Then it happened. A moment between two people that rarely happens in life, his smile got bigger and he said “let’s eat.” Those brief seconds and the look from JJ, my Grandpa, were forever imprinted on my soul. I never doubted him again.

Nickname

I recently found out that there are several people who know about my blog or are now reading it. This includes my Mom who asked whether she should have a look. Of course it did help that I posted it on Facebook. However, it got me thinking that perhaps another explanation is required. I told the story of how I chose the name of my blog, Fat Man’s Hustle. I think it would be important to explain why I use  “Wave hog” as my blogger name.

"Wave hog” is a nickname that only one person uses. His name is Vic Janzen. There is a fun story around that name. But first it would be prudent to let you know how much nicknames mean to me. I believe that a nickname is a term of endearment used to describe how a person sees you. Some names are mean, but those are rarely used to your face. Each nickname in this list has a story but those will have to wait for another time. These are some of the names that have been used throughout my life:

Buller – Used for over 2 years to the point where my first name was almost nonexistent
Bull – Given by Sammy
Big G – Use often
Wave Hog – Only by Vic Janzen
Wave – Use by Marlene Janzen, Vic’s wife
Big Guy – Used by customers when I was running a furniture store in Winnipeg
G Man – The younger generation at many of the theatres I worked at
Eclipse – My Brother-in-Law

The Janzen family will always hold a special place in my heart. Vic and Marlene have 4 boys and I was their baby-sitter. Just imagine 5 boys in a house with near free rein. I was a very responsible teen, but really, how could we not play cops and robbers, hide and seek all night long. I loved to look after those boys and from what I have been told; I was the family’s favourite. The Janzen family and I share a bond. They trusted me to look after their family so I did the best I knew how.

Here is where the name came from. It was the summer and my Mom had just gone shopping to buy me new clothes. I got shorts and t-shirts. Nothing out of the ordinary for a young teenager. However, as you may have noticed from the list, most of my nicknames are related to my size. I was at least 280 lbs at this point and over 6’ tall. I was not small.

I was going over to the Janzen's cottage to baby-sit their kids. It just so happened that I was wearing one of my new t-shirts. It was red with a pig surfing and the words “Wave Hog” were written across the chest. One look from Vic and that handle bar moustached face smiled from ear to ear. I think he said something like, “Oh that’s perfect, Wave Hog.” They have never looked back. It has almost been 20 years since that time and Vic still uses it.

It is one of those names that I secretly enjoy. At the time it described me perfectly. I would spend hours in the lake swimming and body surfing the waves. Add the shirt and it was the perfect way to describe me. It was and still is a wonderful term of endearment saved solely for the Janzen Family.

Onions

This morning I woke up and I thought about onions. A somewhat strange thought to start a day. There is a story behind onions as with most things in my life and I do love a good story.

I have always been a picky eater. Growing up my pallet was limited. I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches until grade 7 when I switched to ham and cheese. I stayed with that sandwich until an onion broke my stubborn eating choices.

My mom used to make spaghetti and meat sauce at least once a week. I did not understand that an important ingredient in spaghetti sauce is in fact the onion. What ever the reason, I would spend as much time as needed to pick out every visible onion I could find in my mom’s spaghetti sauce. This could take up to 5 min before I was ready to eat.

Then I went to Lithuania. After a few months of eating local dishes and more potatoes than ever, we were craving some kind of food that reminded us of home. At just the right time we discovered a pizza place. We each ordered our own. I had a thin crust pepperoni with mozzarella cheese. The smell of our pizzas cooking was intoxicating. We could not wait.

Our pizzas came to our table and to my horror, there was an entire onion sliced up and all over the pizza. I think I almost cried. My two friends started eating and I started to pick away. Using my fingers, I slowly picked each slice of onion off my pizza. My friends were almost done eating and I had yet to take a bite. Embarrassment and hunger finally took over and I started eating.

The first few bits were delicious. Then I hit an onion. The texture almost made me stop. But after 3 months, it was too good to refuse. I had for the first time in my life eaten onion slices and survived. Two weeks later, we were back at the pizza place and this time no picking, just eating. Onion after onion was chewed up and swallowed.

Now I love onions.

First Crime

I broke into a house once. I don’t know exactly how old I was but I was still living on Hawthorne and going to John Prichard elementary. I guess I was around 8. My friend Christopher and I were riding our bikes around the neighborhood on a weekend. The house that attracted our attention was almost built, but the outside was still under construction. There were no stairs on the outside and the yard was just dirt.

Chris and I climbed up to the back patio door and jimmied the lock. To our surprise, the lock clicked and the door slid open. Two 8 year old boys had just committed a crime. How cool was that. Our hearts were racing. We walked in and started to explore. It was a lot of fun. We were just looking around. We were not going to take anything and we were not going to add any additional art work.

Then it happened, 10 minutes into our exploration we heard voices. I was upstairs so I hid in a closet. My friend hid in the kitchen. Of course the home owner and the building planner would come straight upstairs and into the bedroom that I was hiding in. I was scared out of my mind so as soon as they came in, I ran. I got chased a little but they did not follow me down. Thankfully we did not damage anything or I may have one of those sealed juvie records in a police file somewhere.

This is just one of those stories about my life that I want to remember. It was a time of change, crossing over that line that divides the innocence of my youth into the realm of mischief.

Broken Neck Part 1

This is part one of a long story. It happened in 1989 when I was 14 years old. We had just finished our last high school exam for the year. We had a week off before our final assembly. It was June and what a better way to celebrate the end of grade 9 by having a pool party. All day long I had been diving and swimming my heart out. There was this crazy tradition that still goes on today; push people into the pool. It was my turn. As I was standing at the edge of the pool, by best friend at the time, snuck up behind me and pushed me in.

That is when it happened. I instinctively dove in to the pool into the shallow end. I felt and heard the most horrific crunch that reverberated throughout my entire body. I jumped up and yelled “Please help me.” I walked out of the pool holding my shoulders as high as I could. I was holding my head so I wouldn’t move. I knew something was wrong but in my stubbornness, I asked to be taken home. I stayed in my wet trunks and t-shirt wrapped in a towel. I got into the front seat of a station wagon buckled up and got driven home. When I walked into the front door, my parents met me and said, “Something is wrong, we are going to the hospital right now.” I said that I was fine and wanted to go lay down. Again my stubborn streak was trying to deny what I already knew, I was in trouble.

My parents drove me straight to the emergency at the main children’s hospital in downtown Winnipeg. When we walked in and told the nurse what had happened, there were 2 nurses and one doctor attending to me within 30 seconds. They gave me the first of 4 neck braces that I would wear over the next 9 months.

The first night I was laying on a hard bed without a pillow. I had to pee in a jug and eat without moving my head. I stared at the ceiling and watched TV with my eyes down looking across my chest. I had x-rays every day and every bone specialist in Winnipeg came and saw me. It was 6 days of lying flat on my back while the doctors decided what to do with me.

I had caused such severe trauma to my neck that they did not know what to do. To give you a little perspective, I had broken, dislodged and compacted vertebrae C4. Three possible ways to have your spinal cord severed and I did not die. I was still walking around and I did not lose any feeling in my toes or fingers. The doctor simply stated that I should be dead and there was no way I should be walking.

If you are unaware of how a neck works, there are 7 vertebrae in your neck. I broke C4 which is the middle one. The one that you break and you are a quadriplegic for the rest of your life. Christopher Reeve broke C4 when he fell off his horse. He was in a wheel chair until he passed away. I had broken, dislodged and compacted only one bone in my neck.

Based on all the x-rays and consultations with doctor after doctor, the debate was what type of neck brace I would be wearing for the next year of my life. The one I did not want was the “halo.” The “halo” is a metal band that is screwed into your skull with four posts that extent down to a chest harness. It makes your neck completely immobile.

Amazingly, I got a hybrid of the “halo.” I had to wear a chest harness that had a chin brace and a brace that wrapped around the back of my head just above my ears. I had been saved from the “halo” and I was finally able to walk around. After 6 days of lying on my back it was like being able to fly. What I didn’t know was how much my life was about to change.

Hugs

I have been told that I give the best hugs ever. Some of the descriptions I have heard:

“Oh my, it’s like being hugged by a pillow.”
“Your hugs are like going for a massage.”
“When you hug me, I feel better about myself.”
“I feel safe.”
“WOW!”

I’m not sure when this started for me. I think it has to do with how I believe I should be. One of the challenges in my life is to try and make sure that everyone feels a little better about themselves after spending time with me. At the end, the hug is a natural way to say as much as you can through physical contact. When I hug you I am saying to you: “Thank you.” “I appreciate you.” “You are safe with me.” “Everything will be ok.” “You are loved.”

In recent years, I have begun to pay close attention to how people hug. Whether it is a firm hold with a full body press or a timid hug with an arch to keep the body away, everyone is different. Some wrap their arms around my neck, standing on their tip toes just to reach. Others wrap their arms around my girth and are fully engulfed in a strong embrace. One of my favourites is the angled one arm hug. It is the most uncomfortable hug to give. One arm can reach right around with ease and the other doesn’t quite make it; an awkward off-centre hug.

You can tell a lot about a person from their hugs. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but a hug shows you just how comfortable a person is with themselves. Some people gear up for a hug. They put everything down, take off their coat and stretch their arms out. They know what they want without any guilt or fear. For those hugs, I have to be ready to give my best because they know what they want so I’m going to give it.

Others are timid and reluctant to hug at all. This is more common than you might think. I believe it has to do with trust. Some people trust immediately and others a little longer. It is a wonderful thing to build trust with someone over time. You can feel the progression through their hug. It starts off timid with as much separation of the body as possible. In the end, some of the best hugs that I have participated in are from those who finally say back, “Thank you for being you.”

Friend?

One of my friends came over last night. He had flown in from Vancouver with a stop over in Winnipeg. He is in Ontario for a conference and he wanted to catch up and stay at my place for night. It was really nice to see him. I find him to be incredibly smart and kind. He stood up with me at my wedding. I have always admired him. He is without a doubt a good friend.

But it got me thinking. What is a friend? What changes a person in your life from a co-worker or an acquaintance to a friend? I think it comes down to how you introduce that person to other people. “Hi Jane, I’d like you to meet my friend Jon.” Or is it, “Hi Jane, I’d like you to meet Jon, we work together at…” Or even, “Hi Jane, this is Jon, an old acquaintance from…”

For some reason I am reminded of a quote by Dr. Seuss, “Those who matter don’t mind. Those who mind don’t matter.” Could this be the simplest way to define a friend? Is it someone in your life who is there and likes you just because you are you? Perhaps it is someone in your life who you don’t talk to for years and then when you finally meet, it’s like you never stopped.

You know, when I started writing this down, I thought I would come up with a great idea or definition of what a friend is. Now I realize I only have more questions. For instance, I was talking to my best friend about how to choose a Best Man or Bridesmaid for a wedding. How can you? How can you define who is your best friend? What criteria will you use? Does it simply become a catch-22?

I mean really. Who is your best friend and what criteria will you use to decide?

To lie or not to lie?

I sit at my computer wondering what to do next. What part of my life will I expose? In the beginning it is always difficult to decide. Do I hide the things that I don’t like about myself so people are drawn to me or simple say fuck it and tell the truth? I suppose it is easier when I have no idea who will read this.

I think the truth is important even though it is scary to me. I found comfort in lying, hiding behind a fake wall trying to keep safe. I can still remember when it all started, my first lie.

I was 6 years old. It was the winter of 1981. I was walking home from school down Henderson Hwy in Winnipeg MB. Now keep in mind that if you grow up in Winnipeg you will either love the cold and snow or you will hate it. I love it. Winter was my favourite time as a kid. Playing in the snow, building forts and the inevitable snow ball fight.

On this particular day the sun was shining, it was crisp and the snow piles were huge. The piles were 10 feet high. These were the ones that are at the end of parking lots and built by front end loaders. How could I resist the temptation to cross a 6 lane road just to climb this mountain of snow with my friends? I was six, so it had to be done. It was way too much fun.

Now we come to my first lie. When I got home, my Mom was really mad at me. I could just tell. Something was wrong and I knew I had been caught breaking a parental rule. I had crossed the street by myself when I was 6. The rules for walking home from school were simple. My home and school were both on Henderson Hwy and both were on the West side. I had a preplanned route that I was required to follow. The snow pile was on the East side of Henderson in a 7-11 parking lot 6 lanes across a forbidden road. I broke the biggest rule of all, I was NEVER allowed to cross Henderson Hwy unless I was with an adult.

I don’t know why I lied, I just did. The words came out of my mouth, “It wasn’t me Mom.” It went on for a while, my Mom was the interrogator and I was the suspect. In the end my lie had prevailed. I had discovered a new power. I just might be able to get away with anything.

Now 30 years later I still am still plagued by the same question. Should I hide myself behind lies or step out from behind my wall and face the consequences of my choice; lie or tell the truth?

It's all in a name...

So here it starts. I have begun an exercise in self discovery and opening my soul to strangers. If anyone does read this, welcome to my life. You are only limited only by what I am willing to share or talk about.

It all started with a name. What should I call my blog? I settled on Fat Man’s Hustle. It is just one of those things that has stuck with me for the last 10 years. There is a story behind the name and its significance in my life. To be perfectly blunt, I am a fat man. I have been over 300 lbs since 1993 and I have never been under since. I am fortunate that I am 6’2” and my current 320 lbs is evenly distributed from head to toe.

About 10 years ago, I was playing squash with my wife. During one of our games, I was running after the ball. As I was swinging my racket, my body kept moving, completely ignoring my attempts to slow down. After the wall abruptly stopped my momentum, we burst out laughing. In my wit and wisdom, I commented, “Hey, it’s the fat man hustle. Once I get it all going it’s hard to stop.”

What can I say, it’s all in a name.