“300” – The Allison Chronicles – Part 4

Some Notes:

While I have publicly testified about the events presented in this post, I have never revealed all the details (especially the one significant detail) to anyone in 35 years. Except, of course, to the Reverend John a few weeks ago when discussing whether I should write this post. I know that some people will be critical that I waited this long. Others will be critical that I have presented it now as fact. And that’s fine. I agree with you all. I won’t argue with anyone. But please understand that I never wanted to write this story, and it’s been painful to relive these emotions.

Also, this post is accurate based on the best recollection of the events. I do realize that medical technology and procedures have improved over the past 35 years. If I have made any technical or terminology errors, please message me privately.

Because someone, somewhere, surely needs to hear this …

In review, the doctor delivered the following prognosis the day after Allison was born:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with severe brain damage.

We had made it through the first two hurdles fine. Allison was progressing well, considering the circumstances. I started to feel much better, and was hopeful.

But it was a false hope.

The doctor didn’t explain the complexities Allison would face at the two-week juncture because you are not expected even to get that far. And I didn’t ask about it because I was overwhelmed by the immediate danger. But the doctor didn’t say there “may” be a critical time. He said “is,” and almost two weeks had passed and now the cold reality was explained in very stark terms.

The cerebral hemorrhage Allison suffered causes the brain fluid to thicken. She will need a shunt inserted into her brain, the same type used for hydrocephalus patients, to drain out the contaminated fluid. If the fluid isn’t drained, pressure builds up in the brain, leading to a slow, painful death.

However, the doctor wants the thickness of the brain fluid to be at 200 mg/dL for this operation to have a good chance of success; he won’t even operate if the reading is above 300. If the fluid is above 300 mg/dL, you are caught in a literal deathtrap: An operation is needed to drain the thick fluid out of the brain, but the fluid is too thick to allow the operation. The body does generate new fluid every day and drains out what old fluid it can. So, the doctor will run an initial test to see how thick Allison’s fluid is and then run tests every other day to chart her progress.

On Thursday, they run the first test, and our family and friends begin praying that Allison will be able to have the operation that could save her life. My prayer is a little different than that, however. I am analytical by nature, and the Baptists instruct you to pray very specifically. I pray that the test will be at 300. This is prayed without ceasing. It is prayer fervently and repeatedly.  Over and over - 300, 300, 300, 300.

The first fluid is drawn on Thursday, and on Friday, we learn her fluid is at a reading of 720. This is not good news. 720 is a long way from 300, but it is only one data point. I don’t know how fast this fluid is draining until I get a second reading. But I do know we are running out of time. I continue to pray – 300, 300, 300, 300.

They draw more fluid on Saturday.  We wait anxiously Sunday for the test results. The phone rings just before 7 p.m. My wife takes the call, then turns to me and says, “The test came in at 690.”

Instantly, I realize the literal gravity of the situation. Now I have a second data point, but there is nothing to analyze. You can do the math without a calculator. The fluid thickness had only gone down 30 points in two days. It needs to go down another 390 points. At this rate, it would take 26 more days to reach 300, and I’m not sure she has another 24 hours. 

It is over. It is so over. There had always been that flicker of hope – that tiny candle burning in the night. But now even that light had been extinguished. There was only darkness. Even the shadow in this valley of death is now covered by the night. I am once again devastated.

“I’m going for a walk,” I blurt out, as I grab my coat and bolt out the door.

I am walking as fast as I can, yet I am not going anywhere. This is the only way to deal with the overwhelming rage. Of course, I was angry over my situation, but I had not at the time to deal with it because there was too much other stuff happening. This enormous fury had just built up inside of me and now it was being unleashed all at once. I am so enraged I can’t think straight. It hurts so much I cry for the first time in this trial. I’m glad it’s dark because so people can’t see how distressed I am.

I turn back for home after about a mile because if I don’t, I’m not sure how far I might end up walking. At that point, I have burned off most of the raw emotion and begin to think clearly again. But I am still enraged at everyone and everything, and especially at God. We had made it through long odds, and now after going through two weeks of hell, this was going to end with her slow, painful death. That is unacceptable to me. So, if prayer is loosely defined as “communicating with God,” then I guess I said a prayer.

I’ve have been brutally transparent to this point, but the contents of this prayer will remain between God and me. It is my worst prayer I have ever offered, but if God values our honesty, then it is also my best.

I am about three minutes from home when I finish telling God exactly how I feel. And suddenly, I am at peace. But not your typical peace. The peace The Book talks about that surpasses all human attempts to understand it. And this is a surprise. For the first time in two weeks, I am back in control of my emotions. I am willing to accept the inevitable no matter how painful it will be. There would be no more prayers for “300”.

That evening I start thinking about life beyond this horrible event:

What will the funeral be like?

How long will it take my wife and I to recover from this?

Will our marriage even survive this tragedy?

I go to work the next morning knowing there is a good chance my phone will ring sometime this week, and the struggle will be over. Of course, this is before the days of cellphones, so every time my office phone rings on Monday, I hold my breath before answering and then exhale when it turns out to be a dealer or salesperson on the line. It is a variation of Russian roulette played with a phone instead of a gun. This was going to be a brutal week, not knowing when that critical call would arrive.

But I didn’t have to wait long. Around 9:45 Tuesday morning, my wife calls.  Instinctively, I grab the edge of my desk with my right hand, bow my head, and close my eyes, bracing for the worst. However, my wife is calling to tell me the results of the Monday test. I had forgotten that they were even drawing more fluid. Why even bother? We were 390 points away from 300, more than double. More bad news would just add to the torture.

However, my wife is talking so fast that I can’t make out what she is saying. I ask her to slow down and repeat it. This time I can clearly hear her words, but I can’t comprehend what I just heard. I ask her to repeat it one more time. “The test came in at 300”, she says, slightly irritated at having to deliver the message a third time. “She’s scheduled for emergency surgery tomorrow morning.”

After the call ends, I sit there with my head bowed, holding the receiver in my hand, trying to process the inconceivable news I have just received. I am stunned, and I begin to shake (more about this moment in Part 5).

It takes a few minutes for me to regain my composure, and I inform my boss that I will be out of the office on Wednesday. While this is great news, it just means my two-week-old daughter can undergo delicate brain surgery, which has a limited chance of success.

Next, Part 5: (I Will Fear No Evil)

Fearing The Evil – The Allison Chronicles, Part 3

Please be sure to read Part 1 and Part 2 first … because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this

Summary: My daughter suffers a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth and is not expected to live more than a day, or maybe two. After getting this horrible news, I go to the children’s hospital to see her.  

I follow the nurse down the aisle to the back walk where the most-critical babies are located. We turn the corner, and in the middle of the row, I see the name “Allison Ake” on the isollete. The nurse keeps walking, but I stop a good five feet away, stunned by what I see.

The nurse turns around and is surprised that I’m still standing in the aisle. She quickly backtracks and asks, “Can I get you anything, Mr. Ake?”

“Yes, I need a glass of water and a chair. Oh, and please bring the chair first.”

I answer her question, but my eyes never leave the isolette. Most fathers delight in seeing their day-old daughter, but I am staring at the most frightening scene of my life. There is my daughter lying in the isollete. Her arms are raised up, firmly against the sides of her head, her fists tightly clenched. Eyes shut, she struggles for every breath, and there are tubes and wires everywhere.

I can’t take another step forward. I’ve stopped instinctively, because I’m in a dangerous situation, like when you get too close to a blazing fire or a ferocious animal. But in those instances, you would back away or even run. And I want to turn and run, but I can’t, because the name on the isolette says “Allison Ake” and that means this one, no matter how damaged, belongs to me.

It is more than a gut-punch. It’s as if a warhead has been fired right through me, removing my gut, but leaving me alive to deal with the pain. I stand there frozen, but inside, my heart is racing as I absorb the stone-cold reality before me.  

The nurse returns with the chair and places it beside the isollete, because of course, I can’t sit in the aisle. I take the four steps forward and slide quickly into the chair as I feel my knees weaken. I sit slumped over, staring at the floor, as the nurse leaves to get my water.

The nurse returns, and I take a gulp. She asks me, “Mr. Ake, do you have any questions?”

Now you would think the obvious question is, “How is she doing?” But even though I have only been a father for just a little over twenty-four hours, I am in full-dad mode.

“What’s wrong with her arms?” I ask. 

“The cerebral hemorrhage your daughter suffered causes intense seizures, she explained. “She put up her arms to fight off the shocks to her brain, and they locked in that position. It’s rare for them to survive seizures that strong, but she did. She’s a fighter.” 

     

I stare at the nurse in disbelief, just as I had when the doctor had given me the prognosis earlier. The nurse returns to her duties. I sip some more water, and the emotions start raging out of control again. I want to scream, but I can’t because that would distract the doctors and nurses doing their jobs in the ICU.

I turn and look at Allison, my face inches from the isolette –

Breathe in … Breathe out … Breathe in … Breathe out

Here, time is measured in breaths, and at the back wall of the ICU, every breath is vital.

I feel some fatherly pride. This tiny, day-old kid had fought off certain death. And it is not surprising that the offspring of two strong-willed, stubborn people had not died when she was supposed to. I vow to stay there with her all night – if she makes to the night.

However, I wasn’t prepared for the intense situations that occur on the back wall of the ICU. The monitoring alarms for the critical babies sound every fifteen minutes or so at random. Every time it is an emergency, life-threatening situation, and six doctors and nurses rush to the isolette to keep the baby alive. As things stabilize, one by one, they leave to tend to the other infants.

It is like sitting in hell on earth. Every time this scene is repeated, it shocks me to my core - not knowing if that baby is going to survive and not knowing if Allison’s alarm will be the next to sound. It is a psychological torture chamber that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

In that environment, I am unable to stay with her all night; I can’t even last for two hours. I take a long look at Allison before I leave. I realize it might be my last look, but I sense I would be coming back. I return to the regular hospital to report back and comfort my wife.

I go home that night to an empty house, feeling much different than when I left nine hours earlier. I am alone and horrified. I lie down in bed terrified, and six hours later, I open my eyes, and I remain just as terrified. I call my wife and am relieved to hear that Allison has made it through day one.

I return to that torture chamber on day two. I still need the chair, but I don’t need the water.

And she’s still breathing …..

Breathe in … Breath out … Breathe in … Breathe out

But it’s still brutal to sit in the ICU again with those monitor alarms going off. I last about the same two hours again.

King David writes in The Book: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

And you don’t grasp the magnitude of those words until you have to take that walk yourself. Because I am surrounded, maybe engulfed, by evil every step that I take. It is ever-present, ever threatening, every second of the day. And David is a much better man than I, for I fear the evil. I fear the evil with every breath I take. I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life.

But Allison does make it through day two. The immediate threat has passed, a huge victory given the dire odds. The next eleven days bring a series of small victories. She lowers her arms to a normal position. She opens her eyes. And her isollete is moved a few rows forward, off of that perilous back wall.

I start to feel much better about the situation. I can breathe normally again at last. I can finally see some light at the end of this dismal tunnel. My hope is rising. And I feel that exhilaration of beating those terrifically long odds - when everyone literally leaves you for dead and yet you survive. We had narrowly dodged two bullets, and I feel bulletproof.

However, if you remember the prognosis, there is a critical point that happens at the two-week juncture. Of course, I forget about all about this part because I have been so focused on the progress she is making day-by-day.

But a third projectile has been fired at Allison. And this shell is not a bullet, but a missile. There will be no dodging this one.

Next: Part 4 – “300”

  

The Valley of the Shadow of Death – The Allison Chronicles – Part 2

(Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this)

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil …

Part 1 Summary – My daughter has suffered a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth. The next day the doctor gives me the following prognosis:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with extensive brain damage.

No Hope

There’s no hope in that statement. I immediately sit down in that hospital family room with my wife and her parents, and no one utters a word. There is really nothing to say, and I am having enough difficulty breathing to be able to speak.

It’s one of those rare moments when you experience a full dose of negative emotions all at the same time. Pain, fear, anger, grief, despair, anguish, heartbreak, anxiety, and panic – lots of panic.

It feels as if my brain is on fire, randomly firing emotional pain and turbulence throughout my body and there is no way to stop it. My emotions rage like a hurricane, spinning out of control.

And there were no prayers, either silent or as a group. Because exactly what do you pray for? There is no hope for your situation. You literally don’t have a prayer. Only pain - lots of pain.

But despite this internal torture, I start to become a father. I begin to think like a father. The fatherly instincts kick in. Fathers protect their children, fathers provide for their children, fathers fix things for their children. Men are wired to take action. But what can I possibly do?

I am reminded of the story in The Book of a man (his name is Jairus) who was told by a doctor that his 12-year-old daughter was going to die. He goes and finds The Man and brings him to his daughter. The story ends with the dead girl being brought back to life. We tend to focus at the miracle at the end of the story and read past the beginning. Here we have a father who loved his daughter so much he risked his job, status and reputation on the sliver of hope he could save his daughter. Without those actions, there is no story – none.

It’s Time To Act

I decide I have to do something – anything. The adrenaline starts pumping and the brain gets focused. It doesn’t matter if this action makes any sense or difference at all. But I will not just sit in that room waiting for my daughter to die. I quickly rise to my feet and announce: “I’m going over to Children’s Hospital to see her.”

And it was an announcement. Everyone in the room is stunned. They all know how I dislike hospitals and avoid them whenever possible. Sometimes I would get nauseous and light-headed when visiting people. Under these dire circumstances no one would expect me to go anywhere near there. This action was completely out of character. But fatherhood changes a man, and in this case, I was maturing by the second.  It was time to step up, even if I didn’t expect to be a father much longer.

But once I made this decision, I was in a raging rush to get to my daughter as fast as possible. I bolt out the hospital and jump in my car. It is one of the most challenging drives of my life. I am delirious, not in control of my emotions or senses. I am in no shape to drive.  Fortunately, the hospitals sit just over a half-mile apart. But, of course, I hit every red light and the tension every time the car is stopped is unbearable. At the first red light, I start hyperventilating and have to lean forward onto the steering wheel, and  totally focus on keeping my foot on the brake.

And it was during this short trip that I offered up the first prayer for my daughter. It was not a good prayer. It’s the type of prayer we should never make. We are never supposed to bargain with The Creator. It is always wrong do that. But I’m delirious, and I’m not thinking about what a righteous, appropriate, holy prayer might sound like. But putting myself into motion gives me that sliver of hope and if you have any hope at all, you’ve got a prayer. So, as flawed and as misguided as is was, it just flowed out:

“God, if you let her live, I promise I will raise her the best that I can”

I get to Children’s Hospital and there are the typical series of delays. I have to show I.D. Then I have to find the ICU. I finally get to the ICU waiting area   and then I still can’t proceed because I have to “prep”. I can still remember vigorously scrubbing my hands with the surgical-grade soap, it felt good to burn up some the nervous energy. I put on a protective gown over my clothes and then wait some more for the nurse to return. I anxiously stand there trying to maintain my composure and just want to burst through that door and see my daughter.

Welcome to the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Finally, the nurse returns and motions for me to enter. It is a large room with rows of over 100 sick babies in isolettes. My anxiety level rises. I start to doubt whether this was a good idea. Everyone of these babies have parents and everyone of these parents are going to hell on earth. It is the most depressing room I have ever encountered.

There is a specific order to where the babies are placed in this room. The patients are initially assigned spots based on the seriousness of their condition and then as they improve, are moved towards the wall by the door. The closer you are to door, the closer you are to leaving the ICU.

The nurse leads me down the side aisle at a good pace. Being in a room of sick babies hits me hard. I begin to realize the gravity of the moment. This is a place of life, and a place of death. And I can see the shadow. I can feel the shadow. I can smell the shadow. Yea, I am walking into the valley of the

shadow of death. 

The nurse keeps walking. All the way down to the last row of isolettes on the far wall. We turn left and she stops. I may have thought I was prepping in that waiting area. But I assure you, there is nothing, absolutely nothing in life, that could have ever prepared me for this.

Welcome to Fatherhood – The Allison Chronicles – Part 1

Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this…

I’m rewriting this introduction after I finished writing this post. This event happened 35 years ago, and I’m telling the complete story for the first time now. And the reason is, it is exceedingly painful to relive the worst day of your life and its aftermath. It is distressing to re-experience those emotions. What you are about to read is a narrative of my trip through hell. The keyword, though, in all of this, is “through”.

I never wanted to tell this story before, and honestly, I don’t want to do it now. But I have been instructed to, or more like, commanded to. (some of you will understand that last statement) And after writing this first post, I now realize that I do my best writing when I am in great pain. I surmise that maybe this is why many of the great writers were drug addicts or alcoholics.  

This is an extremely personal story. I will reveal details that are uncomfortable to discuss. It will be almost totally transparent. The story is entirely accurate to the best of my recollection. This is important because there is one key moment that will be difficult for you to believe without a great deal of faith. Revealing this part of the story is so troublesome to me that I had to ask my friend Reverend John, the first person outside my family to ever to hear it, if I should include it. He said, “You have to. Because it is a story of hope, and somebody needs to hear it.”

Therefore, I am writing this because I have been instructed to do so, and somebody needs to hear it. I am not doing so to elicit any form of pity. I don’t want you to sympathize. This is about you, not me. The worst emotion you can express to me is pity. Yes, expressing pity towards me is actually worse than disagreeing with me. It’s a personality defect buried deep in my DNA, and probably another reason this story has never been shared before now.

Life is such a complicated existence. You control much of it through the decisions you make. And then there are those random, life-altering events which can impact us more than all the seemingly important choices we can

ever make. And sometimes there is a bitter irony to these circumstances, the type of randomness which would have one of the best days of my entire life, followed by my absolutely worst day ever.

Welcome To Fatherhood

On Saturday morning, my first child was born. We named her Allison. I was in the delivery room but didn’t actually observe much since any mention of blood, or even medical conditions make me extremely queasy. It was an uncomplicated, easy birth with no problems. After spending time with my wife and daughter, I headed home, totally immersed in the euphoria of new fatherhood.

The first indication of trouble was when my wife called that evening to inform me that Allison had been transferred to Akron Children’s Hospital. But this didn’t alarm me at all. During our child-birthing classes, they had told us that babies get transferred to there all the time for minor, routine ailments and not to worry if that happened.

So, I was not concerned. However, I was upset that they did this. It would delay us from bringing Allison home and interfere with my schedule. This is an example of how selfish of a young man I was. This tendency may have eventually destroyed my life. But my perspective on many things, even life itself, was about to change drastically. I just didn’t know it yet.

The next morning, I went to church and received the joyous congratulations of all my friends, still basking in the exhilaration of being a new father. I headed back to the hospital to see my wife right after lunch.

I did think it was odd that my wife was not in her room, but I was still clueless about the severity of the situation. I sat down and waited, watching the Browns game on a 5” hospital television. However, I began to feel uneasy as the minutes passed.

Eventually, a nurse appeared. She seemed surprised to see me. With a blank expression, she said, “Mr. Ake?” (I nod) “Please follow me.”

Before I could ask a question, she spins out of the room, and I have to hurry to catch up. It was about this time that the feeling of impending doom arrived. It would be an extended stay.

She led me to a “family waiting room”, where my wife and her parents were sitting. They are distraught. They uttered greetings and returned to staring at the floor. I knew that my daughter wasn’t dead because no one was crying, but things had to be bad, really, really bad.

When I asked what was wrong, my wife holds up her hand and tells me to wait for the doctor. The answer to the question being too painful for her to even say.

The doctor soon appears and informs me with a straight poker face and no emotion in his voice that my daughter suffered a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth. He then delivers the following prognosis:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with severe brain damage.

There was not much hope in that statement.

Welcome to fatherhood. I hope you enjoy it, because it isn’t going to last very long.

End of Part 1

Next time: Part 2 - The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Be Kind

Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this …

I made a 2020 New Year’s resolution to be kind or be kinder.

Awww, Don, that is so great of you. You are such an awesome person. You want to be kind to people. You are so wonderful …

No, not so much. For me to have to make this resolution means I have not been kind to people recently. I have been mean, I have been inconsiderate, I have been a jerk. So much so, that I am aware I need to change my behavior.

Thus, the resolution.

My rude behavior became an issue at the start of 2018. That year began with a horrible case of influenza, followed closely with the death of my dog. Then there were a series of frustrating problems with the release of my second book. By March, I was totally fizzed off at the world. So much so that I aggressively unloaded on two people on the phone who had done nothing wrong (one was even work-related). My mood, and thus my behavior, didn’t improve much that year. And I continued to be extremely cranky in 2019, as I struggled with health issues for most of the year.

Now I’d like to think these are valid reasons for my bad behavior. But often my “reasons” are really just excuses. The types of excuses which give us reasons to “excuse” our bad behavior, but make us feel good. In reality, I have been irritated for two years and have responded by being irritating to other people.

Let’s think through this logic. I’m irritated, so I’m going to make other people irritated too. I’m angry, so I’m going to make other people angry too. I’m frustrated …… This is behavior more consistent with a third-grader, but we see it in others, and often display it ourselves.

So, I decided to make this resolution to be kind or kinder this year. I expected to have no problem keeping this resolution because I’m not really rude that often anyway, am I? Yes, it’s a resolution, but I got this! (Insert hysterical laughter here).

However, my work year hadn’t even begun when I got an email from a colleague totally ignoring the agreed to plan for dealing with the first task of the new year on Monday. I immediately started to construct a snarky email chiding them for not following my plan. Then, I remembered, Be Kind. I ignored their indiscretion and proceeded with things on Monday as planned, and guess what? Even though I wasn’t snarky, everything turned out great.

But this was going to be much more difficult than I thought, so I posted a small “Be Kind” sign on the wall above my desk to remind me of my resolution.  And I needed that help, because the following week a co-worker messaged me a stupid question, right in the middle of a hectic day. I had already given them the answer to this question just an hour before, and now I had to take time to answer it again. Once again, I began to type a cynical e-mail. But then I

remembered, this co-worker is dealing with a serious, life-threatening condition. They probably shouldn’t even be working. So, I simply answered their question again, with no disparaging comments.

Don, you are such an angel - being so nice and kind to that sick co-worker. I wish I were as wonderful as you.

And then it hit me – I had a realization …..

WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?

Why should it matter at all if the co-worker has cancer or some other serious disease? Why should I only be kind to the sick and dying? Why wouldn’t I be just as kind to the healthy and living? It should not make any difference at all.

And just when I thought I was making excellent progress, disaster struck on February 10. Usually, you break your resolutions without much fanfare. Maybe you slip up a little here, a little there, until you just give up and gradually return to your old habits. In many cases, you even forget your resolution by the end of January.

But not this year, I didn’t just break my resolution. I pulverized it into little pieces that exploded all over me and anyone else in the area. This happened away from the house, out of sight from that sign on the wall, which had been so helpful. I was unkind, extremely unkind. It was classic third-grade brat behavior, done publicly in front of several people. If I were in third-grade, I would have been sent to “time out”. It’s one of those acts that are so bad that apologizing afterward really doesn’t help.

Typically, when you break a resolution, you say, “Oh well, at least I tried” and go on with life, even if it’s January 2nd. But maybe this kindness resolution requires more effort. Maybe it deserves a second chance. The author Henry James would agree. He said: "Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind."

And kind people are my favorite type of people. The best people I have ever known have been the most kind. They make you feel good, and those are the people you like to be around. When someone extends kindness to you, it makes you feel special. Want to be more popular? Be kind. Want people to treat you better? Be kind. Want to attract a lover? Don’t concentrate on being sexy. Be kind.

Showing kindness is too important to dismiss. Our society is becoming ruder and less kind every day. Our politicians and corporate gods are unkind. Our celebrities and tweeters are unkind. There is a kindness shortage. There is a kindness crisis. Therefore, kindness is a valuable commodity that we desperately need more of.

We can’t change the world tomorrow, but I assure you we can change our world tomorrow - just by being kind to everyone we encounter. Yes, that’s some deep, heavy stuff, right there.

The Book mentions kind or kindness over 80 times. It doesn’t command us to be kind as much as it reminds us of how good kindness is. It assumes we already know we should be kind, so it encourages us to do what we already know we should.

And I know I should be kinder, that I should extend kindness to others whether they deserve it or not. Whether they are sick or not. Whether they are weak or not. Even if I don’t like them, I need to be kind to them.

So, the resolution may have been broken, but the sign stays on the wall. And the journey continues ……

         

Are You Good Enough?

Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this …

In the spring of 2018, Joe Burrows was told he would not be the starting quarterback for Ohio State the upcoming season.

The message was clear: “You’re not good enough”

But Burrows didn’t believe them. He transferred to LSU where he was good enough to lead his team to the 2020 National Championship. And, oh yes, in December 2019, the Heisman voters not only thought he was good enough, they deemed him the best.

Throughout our lives, we will hear the same message repeated:

“You’re Not Good Enough”

Oh, they won’t say it that bluntly. “Not good enough” is expressed in many different forms:

I don’t love you anymore

We’ve decided to go another direction

You’re going to assist Jim on this project

You didn’t get the job

Better luck next time

I want a divorce

Your contract has not been renewed

We’re breaking up

Your performance didn’t measure up

You’re cut

You have failed to meet expectations

We’re going to have to reject your ….

We have no interest in your …..

Don’t call us

You’re fired

We’ve eliminated your position

We’ve all heard these and failure is a part of life.  But …….

You don’t let other people decide if you are good enough

YOU DETERMINE IF YOU’RE GOOD ENOUGH  

It’s your decision. It is your responsibility. It is your determination.

IT IS YOUR’S - NOT “THEIRS”!

Many times, when you are told: “You are not good enough,” it’s not even true.

Why?

Because people can be:

-       Vindictive

-       Irrational

-       Stupid

-       Self-seeking

-       Biased

-       Ignorant

-       Mean

-       Just plain wrong

Remember, not everyone has your best interest at heart. Sometimes, not even your boss, your friends, your family … your spouse.

There is a fine line between self-doubt and self actualization. Don’t let the haters

shove you across it.

We allow people to stick that “not good enough” label on us like a piece of feces that we carry around with us for a long time. It can stay stuck on some people for their entire lives.

When we let it stick, it paralyzes us with self-doubt and a negative self- image. And once it’s on us, it can be hard to wash off. If the comments were made by your parents, lover or someone you highly respect, it might take counseling to wipe the stink off. If it is not as resilient, you still need the help of your friends to get clean. 

And that’s where the “Be There” of my last post becomes real and practical.

Over the last several months, I have long, difficult discussions with three friends who were devastated because they were told “you’re not good enough” by their bosses. They all needed affirmation that they were put in unfair situations at work, and basically set up for failure.

It’s difficult to overcome being told you're not good enough, but this is how it’s done:

In a 15-month span, in 2015-16, Raheem Mostert was cut by six NFL teams. In effect, he was told he was not good enough six times by six different coaches.

Heck, one of those teams was the Cleveland Browns, the worst team in the league. A team that only won one game that entire season. When a team that awful says you’re not good enough, you really have to think about quitting. But:

YOU DETERMINE IF YOU’RE GOOD ENOUGH  - Not anyone else.

Mostert didn’t quit. He thought he was good enough to play in the NFL. He didn’t listen to those other six teams. And he was right. As a San Francisco 49’er he became the first running back in history to run for at least 200 yards and four touchdowns in the 2020 NFC championship game.

And there are those instances where “You’re not good enough” really means – “You’re not good enough, yet.” Except the people giving you the news don’t include the “yet” part. Because they don’t want to help and encourage you. They simply want you to go away. So, sometimes hearing those words, but not believing them, creates an intense motivation to improve and succeed. Mostert kept the exact cut dates in an app on his phone as motivation and no doubt Burrow felt he had something to prove to himself and others also.

This is not to say you can do anything if you just try hard enough. This is not one of those rah-rah, “you have the potential to achieve anything” motivational speeches. This is just deep heavy stuff. Which means sometimes “they” are correct, you are truly “not good enough” for the task at hand.

Unless you are exceptional, you do have limits. But the only way to determine if you are truly exceptional is to challenge those limits. You’ve got to test the limits of your capabilities. Test, test often. Test every day. Which means pushing back, sometimes pushing back hard, when “they” tell you “you’re not good enough”.

Don’t let someone who cares nothing – NOTHING – about you, divert you from the path you have chosen. You are the captain of this ship – you steer it where you want it to go.  And you don’t stink. You just need all that crap that people have thrown at you washed off.

YOU DETERMINE IF YOU’RE GOOD ENOUGH – YOU, YOU ALONE