Feeling helpless....
The sweat just pours off my face, the temperature outside is probably somewhere in the 90s with a ridiculous amount of humidity so who the hell knows how hot it is in the garage, especially with only the side door open. Music is blasting out of my iPod player, I really need to make a new play list for when I'm in here, but "Fortunate Son" was really a perfect song to finish up to.
In here it's just me, the music, the frustration, the anger, the sorrow, and of course, the heavy bag. My strikes are had, fast, accurate, and with my entire being behind them. At times the bag swings wildly as I smash it continuously back and forth. But no matter how hard or fast I hit, it doesn't change a fucking thing does it?
By the end of the session I can barely lift my arms and my hips are killing me by the time I throw my last few head kicks. I'm breathing heavy and my shirt is soaked through. My gloves are soaked in sweat, and my legs are streaked with black marks as I slide off my kick pads. I take a few sips to rehydrate a bit as I stuff my gloves and kick pads back in gym bag. I'm a disgusting mess but no matter how hard I train or sweat it doesn't help does it?
I put my sneakers on and head back into the garage. I remove the heavy bag from it's chain (this is really fun to do by the way, a great balancing/lifting act) and move it to the side of the garage. I collect my iPod, player, and phone and put them in my bag. I leave the garage as I found it and I head inside. Once upstairs I hit the showers...have to wash off the sweat and grime. But I can't wash away the pain at all.
The heavy bag, gloves, and kick pads were Father's Day presents from my parents to me. They knew I wanted to get back into shape and they are well aware of my love of martial arts. When I expressed interest in getting a bag they offered to do it as a gift. Once these wonderful gifts arrived I began using them multiple times a week. I enjoyed getting out there and doing a work out that was both productive and fun.
But now, it's more like therapy than a work out. I don't feel like I am working out, I feel like I am letting out all the anger and frustration and helplessness. I feel like I am pounding away at an enemy I cannot defeat. I cannot choke it out, I cannot knock it unconcious with a kick to the head or leave it breathless with stiff shots to the sternum. I cannot put it in an arm bar or drive it to it's knees with repeated leg kicks. Hammer fists won't cause a stoppage, repeated knees won't cause panic, and a heel hook won't cause a tap out.
My father is sick, he has stage four lung cancer. He survived thyroid cancer and we thought he had beaten the lung cancer when it went into remission right before my wedding in January of 2007 but it came back with a vengeance. And the outlook isn't very good right now. And I am fucking powerless to help him. I could not feel more worthless if I tried.
This man is everything, he is what a man should be. He is honest, loyal, caring, supportive, hard working, determined, loving, faithful, honorable, and intelligent. And I cannot do anything to help him. He has done anything and everything to love, help, support, protect, and provide for all of us. He has picked me up more times than I can count and saved me in more ways than you can imagine. And I cannot help him.
I am trying to do all the things a good son should do. I am doing things around the house and spending time with him. I am doing everything that I can do to be of service. But I cannot do what I want to do. I cannot cure him, I cannot make him better. I cannot make this disease go away. But I can be here and I can be his son and his friend.
And I will keep going out there four times a week and smashing that bag. And hoping against hope that they are wrong, that their time lines are meaningless bull shit. That there will be some astounding recovery. That I won't have to keep thinking these thoughts or live without him. That I won't have to have "that talk" with my daughter on "that day." Because she fucking adores him so much. And it would break her little 9 year old heart.
But my brother and I have made this promise, to all who will listen, we will take care of our Mother. She will never be alone, she will never be lost, and she will never ever need to worry. She will be taken care of and she will be protected. And she WILL NOT be taken advantadge of. This we can do for him. This I promise with every fiber of my being.
I'm sorry Dad, I'm so sorry that I cannot kill this disgusting monster that's inside you. I am so sorry that I cannot stand up for you like you stood up for me. That I cannot make it better and save you like you saved me so many times. I am so sorry and absolutely heart broken that I cannot make this go away. I love you so very much Dad, more than I can ever tell you. I'm sorry. I love you.
In here it's just me, the music, the frustration, the anger, the sorrow, and of course, the heavy bag. My strikes are had, fast, accurate, and with my entire being behind them. At times the bag swings wildly as I smash it continuously back and forth. But no matter how hard or fast I hit, it doesn't change a fucking thing does it?
By the end of the session I can barely lift my arms and my hips are killing me by the time I throw my last few head kicks. I'm breathing heavy and my shirt is soaked through. My gloves are soaked in sweat, and my legs are streaked with black marks as I slide off my kick pads. I take a few sips to rehydrate a bit as I stuff my gloves and kick pads back in gym bag. I'm a disgusting mess but no matter how hard I train or sweat it doesn't help does it?
I put my sneakers on and head back into the garage. I remove the heavy bag from it's chain (this is really fun to do by the way, a great balancing/lifting act) and move it to the side of the garage. I collect my iPod, player, and phone and put them in my bag. I leave the garage as I found it and I head inside. Once upstairs I hit the showers...have to wash off the sweat and grime. But I can't wash away the pain at all.
The heavy bag, gloves, and kick pads were Father's Day presents from my parents to me. They knew I wanted to get back into shape and they are well aware of my love of martial arts. When I expressed interest in getting a bag they offered to do it as a gift. Once these wonderful gifts arrived I began using them multiple times a week. I enjoyed getting out there and doing a work out that was both productive and fun.
But now, it's more like therapy than a work out. I don't feel like I am working out, I feel like I am letting out all the anger and frustration and helplessness. I feel like I am pounding away at an enemy I cannot defeat. I cannot choke it out, I cannot knock it unconcious with a kick to the head or leave it breathless with stiff shots to the sternum. I cannot put it in an arm bar or drive it to it's knees with repeated leg kicks. Hammer fists won't cause a stoppage, repeated knees won't cause panic, and a heel hook won't cause a tap out.
My father is sick, he has stage four lung cancer. He survived thyroid cancer and we thought he had beaten the lung cancer when it went into remission right before my wedding in January of 2007 but it came back with a vengeance. And the outlook isn't very good right now. And I am fucking powerless to help him. I could not feel more worthless if I tried.
This man is everything, he is what a man should be. He is honest, loyal, caring, supportive, hard working, determined, loving, faithful, honorable, and intelligent. And I cannot do anything to help him. He has done anything and everything to love, help, support, protect, and provide for all of us. He has picked me up more times than I can count and saved me in more ways than you can imagine. And I cannot help him.
I am trying to do all the things a good son should do. I am doing things around the house and spending time with him. I am doing everything that I can do to be of service. But I cannot do what I want to do. I cannot cure him, I cannot make him better. I cannot make this disease go away. But I can be here and I can be his son and his friend.
And I will keep going out there four times a week and smashing that bag. And hoping against hope that they are wrong, that their time lines are meaningless bull shit. That there will be some astounding recovery. That I won't have to keep thinking these thoughts or live without him. That I won't have to have "that talk" with my daughter on "that day." Because she fucking adores him so much. And it would break her little 9 year old heart.
But my brother and I have made this promise, to all who will listen, we will take care of our Mother. She will never be alone, she will never be lost, and she will never ever need to worry. She will be taken care of and she will be protected. And she WILL NOT be taken advantadge of. This we can do for him. This I promise with every fiber of my being.
I'm sorry Dad, I'm so sorry that I cannot kill this disgusting monster that's inside you. I am so sorry that I cannot stand up for you like you stood up for me. That I cannot make it better and save you like you saved me so many times. I am so sorry and absolutely heart broken that I cannot make this go away. I love you so very much Dad, more than I can ever tell you. I'm sorry. I love you.