Geek To Pro: The Inspiration
Why Do It?
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This post is most definitely over-due. As many of you know form my first post in this series, I’m a web-developer and often things get hectic at the worst times.
Let’s start with where I’m at. Since my last blog I've gained a total of ~ 5lbs, lost most of my visible fat and am in overall better shape. Although that sounds promising, two weeks ago we went down to the local high-schools turf field to time me in my 40 yard dash — it wasn't pretty. It was in the 5 second range. Keep in mind this was on turf using all-around style shoes, but the excuses can only fend off so much of the reality: If I’m to have a chance, I need to shave at least .7 seconds off the times I posted.
Outside of that, it’s been the same regime with a few additions. Still do cardio and weight-lifting 5-6 times a week, and now add in drills every night I workout (high-knee etc.). The next stage will mean I do workouts twice a day, 5 to 6 days a week. After the next week or so, I will return to the field and see where I’m at — I’ve picked up some sprinting cleats for turf and track.
The Inspiration
I touched on my inspiration in the first post, but here I will go far more in-depth. I will tell a good chunk of the story so you can get a better idea of why.
Growing up once I hit high-school, a lot of things came easy to me. I didn’t have to study very hard (or at all) to get A’s on tests. I didn’t have to try very hard to be fast. I was in good shape and I was able to eat whenever and whatever I wanted. On top of that, I seemed to be bombarded by opportunities that I would routinely squander away: Interviews to host TV shows, opportunities to produce music for fashion lines, business ventures and more. Much of this was due to my naivete. I had no mental limits on what I could achieve because I was never taught that limits even existed.
That all changed in short order when I was 20. 2008 was one of the most brutal years of my entire life.
In early 2008, the future mother of my child Tristan and I were robbed and kidnapped for a short time. The robber dropped us off on a dark road about 30min from town. Unharmed for the most part, without phones or keys. This was a traumatic experience for obvious reasons. Not 30 days later this girl was pregnant with Tristan.
As the year continued, I quit my job to work a contract that ended up yielding only $12,000 over the remainder of the year. We were poor. Before I was able to suck up my pride enough to get assistance, there were multiple instances where I would go a few days without eating so that Tristan’s mom can be nourished. Time were tough, and little did I know they were going to take a much worse trajectory after he was born.
It was during these events everything about my life began changing. Nothing came easy. Opportunities seemed impossible to realize. Welcome to the real world. Throughout this I couldn’t help but have a confidence that somehow some way, I was going to get us out of the mess I got us into.
On October 29th, 2008, Tristan was born. Any parent can relate, the birth is life changing. He was merely a minute old yet it felt as if he had been a part of me my entire life. Initial vitals came back only slightly askew. He had mild tachycardia (had a fast heart-rate) so they wanted to take him to the nursery for monitoring to make sure his heart rate came back down. Throughout the pregnancy I would sing to him, so I followed. I sat in the nursery and sang IZ’s version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow. It was a success, his heart rate came down and he was headed back to the room.
We were out a few days later. Having a new baby in the house and still trying to work through the disgusting contract brought my relationship with Tristan’s mother to a braking point. It only added to the stress in the household, and I did my best to remain level-headed.
It was three weeks after he was born and I had fallen asleep late. Something woke me out of a dead sleep. I was worried about Tristan. He had generally slept in bed with us (I know), so I turned quickly to see him but he wasn't there. Neither was his mom. Only a note remains where they were. His mother couldn’t take the stress. I didn’t care. I called her right away and made it clear I was going to head to her fathers house and straighten things out first thing in the morning.
I got up at 7am and picked them up. Apparently he was having a hard time sleeping that night. He was a little pale, but being a new parent I chalked it up to his sleep-deprivation from the night before. When we got back to the apartment I started feeding him a bottle. His little eyes gazed at the black and white picture hung above the couch. He loved staring at that picture — we had gotten in from Blockbuster, it was a kid picking his pants out with the caption “picky picky”.
Right away I was alerted. He wasn’t sucking on the bottle. His mouth hung open. He began turning very pale. His lips started turning blue. He wasn’t breathing. His mother sensed something was wrong right away and began to panic, frantically yelling that we need to take him to the hospital right away. I don’t panic, but this was different. My son was dying in my arms and I didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on.
We got into my truck and raced to the hospital. We got there in 3 minutes (which turned out to be a better idea than the 3 minutes it would have taken an ambulance just to get to our place. But please, in an emergency call 9-1-1). His mother was hysterical. He wasn’t buckled up, he wasn’t in a carseat, he was being held tightly to her chest. “Please don’t leave us. Mommy needs you. Breath please breath.” She repeated it over and over. I tried my best to keep talking to him. Maybe he could hear us.
About a third of the way there he started struggling for breath. We could hear his labored breathing, however the sounds of struggle only made our panic worse. It was painstakingly difficult validation that something was terribly wrong.
I pulled into the emergency drive, she got out and ran into the emergency room. By the time I parked and ran in he was already in a room, hooked up to all sorts of sensors. He had a breathing rate, and had tachycardia, but he was alive. They had stabilized him, gathered a blood lab and arranged for him to be transported to the local children’s hospital for observation over-night. Before he was transferred the doctors at that first hospital assured us that it appeared to be a rather common issue, apnea. I was relieved.
It was time for him to head to the other hospital. His mother rode with him in the ambulance. Knowing that everything was okay I offered to head back to the apartment and grab some supplies. We were still poor, and that meant no cell-phones. I kept mine but his mother had no way to communicate with me.
I stopped at the apartment, leisurely collecting a few items I thought might be useful for an overnight stay. I loaded up the truck and hit the freeway for the 30min trip to the hospital. On my way I got a call from his Aunt (on his mothers side) who had met with his mother there. Apparently once they got to the hospital doctors were waiting for them. All I got from his aunt was that “something was weird with the blood from the first hospital or something so they were gonna do another blood lab.” Okay, I thought. Maybe it was a bad draw? They just needed to make sure. Who knows, I’m a programmer not a doctor, I thought. I hastened my pace but was still not overly concerned.
I got the hospital and met his aunt at the emergency room doors. She was still unaware of what the situation was outside the had moved him from one floor to the PICU. To be honest I didn’t even know what that meant, so I was still not overly worried. I sat with his aunt in the hall in a row of chairs. We were the only ones there. I had no way to get a hold of his mother and had no idea what room they were in. All I knew was they were back in a room, his grandmother on his moms side was with him and his mother.
Suddenly, the doors opened. His grandmother, hysterically walking out, tears running down her face as if under infinite supply. She grabbed my arm and began walking me back. Still, like someone in denial, I said to myself “His grandmother always overreacts, his probably fine.”
She guided me through the second doors of the PICU. She kept repeating “Please be strong. He needs you to be strong. Don’t cry you need to be strong.” My heart fell a little, something was off. As we walked through those doors I can see a room at the end of the hallway with doctors and nurses frantically running out and in.
Please don’t be Tristan’s room.
We walked slowly, with each room my heart falling further. Reality slowly set in for me — that was going to be Tristan’s room. Why? What was going on? What went wrong?
As we approached one of the doctors spotted me, asked if I was his farther, and took me aside. I still have no idea what is going wrong. I quickly look inside the room and my heart dropped to it’s lowest. My legs began to get weak. There was his mother, crying uncontrollably on the floor near the foot of the bed. Tristan was hooked up to nearly everything, defibrillator charged on the wall. He was awake, but something was wrong. His cry wasn’t normal. I snapped back to the voice of the doctor.
“Tristan’s kidneys have failed. We don’t know why yet, but he’s in critical condition.” He said.
“What’s going on? Is he going to be okay?” I replied.
“His labs don’t look good. Right now we are doing everything we can to stabilize him, but you need to prepare yourself.” He said, without emotion.
“What do you mean? Is he going to be okay?” I quipped back.
“Right now we just need you to be with him and prepare yourself for anything.” He replied, again with no emotion. I knew what this meant. Often doctors will separate themselves emotionally from a situation if they know things may be headed in certain directions. He just told me to prepare myself for my sons death. How? I couldn’t.
I headed into the room. It took everything for me not to break down. I had to be strong. I had to be steady. I was guided to the left side of his bed. He was screaming, and nearly instantly recognized me. Tears flowing from his eyes he wouldn’t look away from my own. For that moment, heartbreak was the only feeling I could feel. He was looking to me, full of pain and fear. He was 3 weeks old, he had no idea what was going on, but even then sought comfort in me eyes. And it hit me, he may pass while staring into me eyes. This was pain. At that moment the room became empty, all I could see was him.
I did the only thing I could, I sang for him again.
Over the next few hours he stabilized. He wasn’t going anywhere. That week while in the hospital the doctors went over everything that had happened and what it meant. His K (Potassium) was at 11. That was a fatal level. He wasn’t going to need to be put on dialysis, and as soon as he would be big enough, receive a kidney transplant.
The doctor also recommended something else to us, something that will stick with me for life. I was only 21, his mother only 19. Perhaps, he suggested, we should think about giving him up to another family. We were young and taking care of a baby who is would need such in-depth and critical care would be hard for someone of our age.
No.
Since then, his mother and I had finally gone our separate ways. He stays with me most nights now. We’ve nearly lost him multiple times to infection since then and have spent the equivalent of months in the hospital. He’s 4 now, still without a kidney but that may be changing soon.
You see, no matter how dire the circumstances have been for Tristan he’s kept fighting. He’s broken barriers. Unlike me, nothing has come easy for him yet it doesn’t deter him from doing the things he wants one bit.
With that in mind, who am I to sit here and do nothing? Who am I not to utilize everything I’ve been given and make the most of my life? How can I preach to my boys that you must make the most of the opportunities you’ve been given? And more importantly, how can I look at Tristan and say I’ve always gave my best to do all the things I’ve wanted to? I can’t right now, but that’s why I’m doing this blog. That’s why next year I’m trying out for the NFL. One day when he’s older I will be able to tell him I did give everything, and I will have this story to back me up.
This is really a multi-faceted motivation, but one that couldn’t mean more to me. I want my boys to grow up being naive to boundaries just as I was. I also want them to be equipped with the wisdom I wasn’t: It’s okay to try, even if you feel like the odds are impossibly against you. Not trying is worse than giving up.
I will never give up on my boys — they never give up on me. I wont give up on this either.
