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Breathe

Am I glad that is over with.  Deep breath.

What’s that, you say?  Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you.

As I type this at the nearby public library, I can feel the stress of the events of the past two or three weeks slowly seeping out of my body. Not a minute too soon.

Yeah, Christmas is great fun, ho ho ho.  I’ve always loved this time of year.  I’m a big fan of December snow, homes decked bushes to halls with boughs of holly and itty bitty lights, giving gifts, the scent of cinnamon and pine, the taste of egg nog and cookies.  What’s not to love, right?

How about the logistics of doing it all.  How about rushing around to mix, clean, shop, wrap, decorate, bake, install, assemble, detangle, fix.  And this on top of all the other crap I do on a daily basis for myself and, especially, for my family.  This year, though, it was different.  Four reasons why.  Their names are Drew, Alex, Connor and Audrey.  I’ll throw in two more names, Kat and Gary.

Essentially, Kat and I hosted my old friend and former college roommate Gary and his two kids, Connor (9) and Audrey (4).  They stayed with us from December 16 until yesterday.  Now…we LOVE Gary and his kids…  Connor plays especially well with Drew.  Audrey plays especially well with everyone, plus she’s as cute as a pail of puppies.  And Gary is the finest babysitter we could ask for, which is a tall task given our little Alex.  Yet Gary rises gracefully to each and every challenge even when his own struggles are readily apparent.  Yep, there’s more to this story.

Gary was out of work for almost 2 years.  Somewhere during that time his wife cheated on him.  So now he’s divorced.  And his elderly mom is having health problems.  And his daughter Audrey suffers from asthma.  Finally, his son Connor fights bitterly with his absolutely nutzo ex-wife.  So I think I have problems?  But I digress.

As any parent will tell you, life becomes a balancing act of sorts.  Make sure the minions are fed, watered and not killing each other, wearing reasonably clean clothes and brushing their teeth and you can rest assured that DCFS won’t come a’ knocking.  Overlaying this upon the Christmas holiday season (and the very expectant visit by a generous Santa) make it more challenging.  Oh yeah, it was Connor’s birthday in there too.

And Kat and mine’s anniversary.  Details, details.

But then there was the trip to the hospital.  Not to visit a recuperating relative, either.  Rather to admit my wife to the ICU.  Yeah, that.

Did I mention my son Alex has become increasingly abusive without his typical day to day schedule?  That too.  Oh yeah, Gary’s mom was in the hospital on Christmas day.  And Audrey had an asthma attack a few days prior.

Let the good times roll.

But today respite came in the guise of one of Alex’s therapists.  This allowed me the slightest purchase in the form of time.  Free time.  Time when Kat can cook and play with Drew while Alex’s therapist works with Alex.  And Dave…can just exit stage left.

Which puts me here, sitting at the library, my laptop plugged in and warming my lap.  And I’m breathing.  Big, deep breaths.  Alex begins his school again tomorrow somewhere between 0755 and 0805, the arrival time of his little yellow school bus.  Assuming no mechanical issues, said transport will whisk him to the warm, inviting and capable arms of two wonderful teachers at his school.  And his daddy will kiss him goodbye, wave to him as the bus pulls away and deeply exhale again as I walk back in from the cold.  Normalcy?  Dunno what normal is much anymore.  All I know is that things have been far from normal these past 2 or 3 weeks.

Breathe.

Hello 2012. Cooperate now, willya?

So here we are.  New year.  New slate.  All that new stuff.

It’s still trouble not carrying all that crap that follows one from day to day.  There’s no security checkpoint or Magniot line to hold back all that we’d rather not take with us into this pristine new year.  It’s all what’s in our heads, I guess.

Which leads me to my topic du jour.  My career.

I’d say I was in a holding pattern with the whole thing, but that’s way too cliche.  If I were to use it, I’d entertain my pilot friends out there by saying I’m well past my EFC and have cut deeply into my hold fuel.  Trouble is, weather at all those cozy alternates right now are pretty much zero/zero in fog or heavy thunderstorms, locusts or bubonic plague.  Just not a good place to point the nose of my ship, as it were.  So here I sit at 12,000 feet in the hold stack, certainly not alone waiting for the Worlds Largest Airline to recall my sorry ass.  No, I’ve got plenty of company.

Sorry.  I said I wouldn’t use the old “holding pattern” cliche.  I did anyway.  It does fit, though.  Old cliches and stereotypes are real timesavers!

All told, I’ve been on furlough going on 9 years now.

I received an email from the union that “represents” me (and my interests, supposedly) on New Years Eve.  It was from the president of said unit who was concluding her 2 year elected term of office.  She summed up the most recent raw deal passed on to us pilots.  (Recall that United pilots and Continental pilots still work independent of each other.  Although the airlines have FAA approval to operate as one, actually this is far from what is presently happening.)  Without getting into mind numbing detail, the letter stated one pilot group (Continental pilots) got profit sharing for 2011 because, apparently, their union president complained about it.

Now, United pilots already have profit sharing as part of their total (measly, pathetic) compensation contract.  But when the union president for the United pilots heard about the Continental pilots getting something effectively for nothing, she wanted to get something for us, too.  Fair is fair, right?  Problem is, senior management at United Continental Holdings said “no” like your parents might have said when you asked for 50 cents extra allowance.  End of discussion.

Now the pilot groups of both subsidiary companies (UAL and CAL) are quite bitterly divided over how this grimy, increasingly tasteless pie is being divided.  There were some inklings of animosity between the two groups before, but it’s certainly evident now.

How does this affect me?  Well, as far as I can tell the only thing that will actually change anything in my present furlough situation is simply for all those old guys who benefitted greatly from the change in mandatory retirement age from 60 to 65 four years ago to finally start retiring.  And unless United starts parking airplanes in the desert again (don’t say it too loud or they probably will do so just for hearing it) that’s the only positive movement up the seniority list I will see.  And even that is pretty slow for the next few years.

Best scenario?  A joint collective bargaining agreement (JCBA) that spells out staffing issues via a “scope” section.  Something that is “manpower positive”, ie. more pilots needed.  But I don’t expect this in 2012.

More realistic scenario?  Due to retirements as mentioned above, simple attrition will cause my recall somewhere in 2013 or 2014.  Did I mention I’ve been on furlough for 9 years?

I could go on and on about this topic, but it’s late.  I really love being an airline pilot.  I wanted to be since as early as I could remember, 5 or so.  It’s a great job.  But one shitty career.  I still want my job back.

Suffice to say that yet again I am a pawn in one gigantic chess game in the confounding airline industry.  Everything is tied to my seniority number.  Given to me when I was hired 12 years ago.  Can’t change that.  But I guess I can change the way I feel about it.

Maybe I can leave this crap in 2011.  Oops.  Too late.

Got my Christmas Letter, huh?

I figured as much. Great. Nice to see you read to the end of what has to be the longest Christmas letter ever written. Kudos.

Regarding the content of said letter, I received a little gentle feedback before I mailed them out worried that it was a little too graphic, or perhaps slightly too detailed. Specifically regarding my son Alex’s self-abuse due to his special needs as an autistic child.

Well, I understand. I could have typed “Alex is having some issues, is a little fussy at times, or cranky” but that would have been watering it down tremendously. Really, this would not be conveying enough of what is a very real stressor in our lives. Plenty of our friends and families do not much know the world of an autistic person, let alone the upheaval and stress it can add to one’s life. In their defense, it’s usually because they haven’t yet visited with us (or vice versa) to see for themselves.

That’s why the detail is in there. Nothing more. It’s also just how I write. This blog is supposed to be a venue for me to post what I want to post. So I guess I’ll explain things here if I have to.

I just got off the phone with a very good friend of mine. He and his family were having a party this past weekend.  My family and I were invited.

We didn’t go, though. I told him it was because Alex had just gone through a medication adjustment and would be too “variable” to bring him to what was probably a riotous, boisterous, fun party. It likely would have overwhelmed my son. My wife and I would be double stressballs worrying about Alex spiraling out of control, hovering over him with concern, not catching up with all the other party attendees (the whole point of a good Christmas party) and, finally, forcing us to leave too soon after our arrival. How much fun is that? Answer- not much.

He asked about Alex. “How’s he doing? Is he talking yet? What do you mean he wears a helmet?” All good questions, yeah. So I answered him. He’s doing good–doing better than he ever has, really. But no, he’s not “verbal” yet, the occasional “dah-dee” and “hep-mee” (help me) aside.  And he wears a helmet because he sometimes engages in such rough bouts of self injury that he gives himself black eyes, body bruises and goose eggs on his noggin. We have to protect him from himself sometimes, so he occasionally wears what looks like a football helmet with a full face mask.  It’s definitely not normal outerwear for a hip 4 year old boy on the go. :: sarcasm implied ::  More explaining follows, an attempt by me to soften the jarring image of my son bouncing his head off of a concrete floor in the middle of a store, or park district playground, or friend’s Christmas party.

I can’t make this up. I wish I didn’t have to say any of this, either.

But I am working hard on not being ashamed to admit that my son suffers severely from his autism. So does his family. It’s gut-wrenching. No sound is more sickening than to hear your beloved, beautiful offspring deliberately hitting himself…that SMACK of hard fist on barely padded flesh. And the mournful, plaintive crying/whining that immediately follows.

I don’t get tired of explaining the nuts and bolts of why he wears it, how it tends to be a powerful, coercive behavior modifier, or what the other “protocols” are with its’ use. I just sigh a little knowing it’s a small bit of a handicap, a sign that says our little guy is demonstratively different than other 4 year olds, a hardship that my son and his family will deal with in one way or another for the rest of our lives.

In a way it just “is”. I work hard to accept that. But it’s not easy.

And if you’ve reached the end of this long passage, thanks.  I promise to write something a little more upbeat next time.  Maybe even a little shorter.

Feedback/comments always welcome, too.

Every journey begins with a first step. This is mine.

I like writing.  For years I’ve contemplated writing seriously.  Yeah, I know…sounds pretty narcissistic.  Me…a writer?  Sure, sure, whatever.  Back to the salt caves with you, Shakespere.  Shut up and color.

Sorry, no.  I won’t do that.  Life’s way too short.

This blog won’t be a novel.  Just small pieces of thoughts, ideas, observations, worries and dreams of mine.  All of us have them.  I’m just trying to write them down.

By trade, I’m an airline pilot.  Even that’s not quite true.  More accurately, I’m a furloughed airline pilot.  Difference being I’m not presently active as an airline pilot.  Which sucks because so much of who I am and what I love to do is not presently happening.  Oh…many, many reasons for this.

I’m an optimistic sort.  Always have been.  Always will be.  Some things in my life haven’t gone exactly as planned (dramatic understatement), but it’s not the end of the world here.  Far from it.  Call ’em lumps in the oatmeal bowl.

non·plussed/nänˈpləst/

Adjective:
  1. (of a person) Surprised and confused so much that they are unsure how to react.
  2. (of a person) Unperturbed.
I love when a word exists that captures the precisely the essence of what a writer is trying to convey.  “Nonplussed” fits me.  Both definitions.  So that’s the name of my blog and my website.  That’s me.
And this blog is my first step.