Tiny Life is a radical departure from conventional comics.  There are no super-heroes, there is no manga.  There are no post-apocalyptic vampire-cyborgs who terrorize the zombie populace while simultaneously falling in love with the one shy yet very attractive girl who’s just coming into her own.  It is the completely original story of Jed, a stick-figure in a world of flesh, who must eventually learn – like we all do – the truth about himself, about relationships, about God, and about reality.  Tiny Life is about the world behind things.

Taking place almost a decade before the events of the last book, “left” contains the reasons why Jed doesn’t trust his dad or the seemingly-saintly status he attained in “l(a”.  As far as he knows, his dad abandons him for no apparent reason.  As far as he knows, all of his friends just happen to be leaving as well.  As far as he knows, the red dot that chases him has no purpose.  And as far as he knows, the failed political speechwriter who understands his life’s purpose is not out to kill him.

But then again, he’s only eleven; he has time.

Realistically

About six weeks into this whole thing, I started to come to grips with reality.

Read that again. I didn’t come to grips with Life or with My Life or with God or My Situation or My Heart Condition or How This Would Affect the Raising of My Children and the Publishing of My Book. I came to grips with reality.

Most of the time, when people say they’re a “realist”, what they mean is that they’re cynical. What they mean is a version of “You can’t be mad at me for being a dick because I’m just stating the facts.” What those people don’t understand – and the more I talk to people the more I’m convinced that this affects pretty much everyone everywhere – is that what you perceive as “reality” is just your worldview. It’s a summation of all of your experiences, thoughts, and emotions wrapped up together in order to deal with how reality touches your life. A worldview is not reality. Reality is based on the Law of Large Numbers.

I don’t lock my car doors. Why? Because based on the Law of Large Numbers, the likelihood of someone breaking into it is quite small; most people are not crooks and the ratio of people who pass my car on a daily basis that aren’t crooks vs. the people pass my car on a daily basis that are crooks is even smaller. Your typical “realist” will say “It only takes once.” I say it’s not worth even thinking about (let alone fretting over).

Realistically, I enjoy not being fanatical about anything. Just about everyone is really into something; by not being into anything, by The Law of Large Numbers, this makes me special. It helps me think that I’m better than other people whose lives revolve around certain unattainable goals or insignificant subjects. You could call that a dickish behavior; I’d agree with you (I’m working on changing that).

This heart condition will kill me. By The Law of Large Numbers I will die because of a complication created by my heart condition. It might be surgery. It might be an aneurism. It might be blood volume being slightly affected by a lifetime of death-delaying drugs. But, statistically, I will die much sooner than you will.

By The Law of Large Numbers, if the average age of a white male is 78, then about half of the population will die before that. I guess I’m in that group now.  By The Law of Large Numbers, if someone dies at 110, then someone else has to die at 46 (hopefully, that’s not me).

Second Go

After about three weeks of coming to grips with the possibility of dying and/or the possibility of having my heart ripped out (most teenagers use that phrase as a poetic mantra; I mean it literally), I had a second appointment.

I won’t describe what the doctor said here; it’s basically the same thing: “the ascending part of the aorta has dilated because of the stenosis of the valve. We need to run some tests.” He did assure me, however that the machines the first doctor used were not as accurate as the machines he will use and from what he’s seen, it might not be as bad as I was led to believe.

We got off on exit 3 and parked in the blue lot.

The thing I want to focus on is the appointment itself. I drove about 90 minutes to get there because they’re by far the best in the state and probably top five in the country. When we found the complex we realized that we were staring at a hospital roughly the size of a medium-sized airport – complete with exits and long-term parking. When we finally found the particular concourse and terminal we were supposed to check in to, I noticed a sign that said, “If your wait time is more than 20 minutes, please let us know.” Then they gave us a little light-up coaster like they do at Applebee’s.

When we got into the smaller waiting room we were met by a nurse’s assistant who did all the height/weight/temperature/question stuff. Then the nurse came in and talked about heart conditions in general and chatted a little bit about my exercise and eating habits. Then the doctor came in and talked about my particular ailment. I even got a review checklist for each of the people that came in assuring me that these particular items would be covered. It was very organized and very fast. It was sort of like how an airport is supposed to run (if you didn’t have a mob of people making $9.50 an hour who could be fired at any minute running the place).

But then came the check-out.

The secretary asked if the next appointment was urgent. I don’t know.

The secretary asked if I needed bloodwork done beforehand. I don’t know.

The secretary asked if I needed two separate appointments. I don’t know.

Each of these questions should’ve been answered by one of the assistants as I was leaving. Someone should’ve said, “Now make sure you tell the appointment lady that you need blood work for the test (which should be done today, since you’re here). Tell her that the next appointment should be sometime in the next month or two (nothing too urgent). Also let her know because you live so far away that you should just get the test done in the morning and the consultation done in the afternoon.” But they didn’t.

The receptionist had to call the doctor’s personal assistant to see if I needed the next appointment soon; that took an extra 20 minutes. Then the receptionist had to call some other doctor because my doctor and his assistant were busy; I don’t care what some other doctor has to say, but it took another 35 minutes for that. Then we had to find the doctor to see if he would be able to conduct a test and read the results in the same day. We had to wait for the doctor to finish with the next rehearsed speech with the next patient before he was able to say “yes” or “no.”

The appointment took about an hour-and-a-half. Making the next appointment took just as long.

When I Told Harris

Harris has always been my biggest fan. Every stupid thing I’ve ever tried to publish has been met with, “Dude, this is suh-weet.” My first TPB, “The First Couple O’ Years” is awful; he says it’s one of the best things he ever read. Same with “Steel Fro.” Same with “l(a.” Same with “Jed Jr.” I think he believes that these are the best things ever because we think so much alike and each of these books reflect what I’m thinking at the time they were written. He reads my stick-figure picture-books and sees his complex thoughts simplified and concise.

A couple days before my second appointment, I called him from work. He’s a cop now, so a lot of his stories – instead of being about ideas – are about the cases he’s worked and how the people involved died in horrific ways. When he answered I did my usual, “Hey. What’s goin on?” He told me about some call he went on the night before where some guy locked himself in the bedroom and killed himself.

Toward the end of his story, when he got into “cop speak” (“I was toward the end of my Five and Fifty-Six when the Hairbag and known KGer told me all about the NEOTWY…”) I decided to interrupt him with my story about possibly having heart surgery sometime soon. He said, “Oh yeah?”

There was a beat, like he was trying to figure out if he was going to add something on to his story or respond to what I said, “Wait. What?”

I told him again and he started to do what I knew he would: he tried to argue with me. “Well you know you’re not going to get a free brake inspection without the break guy telling you you need new brakes.” “Did you ask him specifically?” “How come you’ve been fine all these years and then suddenly this?” “It’s just another business to them, dude.” He asked if I had tried to argue with the doctor. He knows that surgeons like to do surgery so he gave me a list of questions and arguments to try. He basically suggested everything I did.

Up until this point, I was unsure if my reactions to this news were appropriate. After seeing Harris’, I knew that they were.

When I Told Jay

My family’s never really been good with sharing our feelings. I’m not sure if we’ve made it tantamount to weakness or if we’re simply uncomfortable with being uncomfortable. Either way, there was a lot of “unspokeness” in my household.

That’s a very good thing sometimes: we never really had that ridiculous birds having sex with bees talk; my brother and I never got into a fist fight; my parents never yelled at each other. It could also be very bad: we never hugged or kissed; we never said “I love you;” we never went out of our way to support each other. It’s a hereditary trait I’m determined to break when it comes to my wife and kids. It is still all-too-common, however, when it comes to me and my brother.

It might stem from a long line of bad news. Whenever we’re approached with bad news (dad’s got cancer, aunt had a stroke, brother got kicked out, etc.) our standard response has always been “OK.” As in, “Ok. I understand what you are saying and will process the information. I will not forget this. I will do what I can to help out.” It’s the most emotion we can muster.

We both happened to be at my mom’s house over the same weekend. It was the last nice night of the fall – that two-week period in Michigan between being 70 degrees and 7 degrees – and we decided to have a Jones Family Bon-Fire. This means four of us sat around a fire and thought about drinking.

As my brother was thinking about the various micro-brews he makes, I said, “The Wife’s pregnant.”

He replied with, “I figured, since you said ‘the kids’ earlier.” Don’t be offended; this is typical. I do the same thing (and it sometimes damages my relationships). The correct response is “congratulations,” not, “Yeah. I know. You look chunky.” It’s just the way we work.

I then said, “And there’s a good chance I will have to have heart surgery by the time the year is out.”

He stared and said, “Ok.”

My family’s never really been good with sharing our feelings. One of the better aspects of that is “Ok” is all I wanted to hear.

When I Told Mom

For a few weeks all I could really think of is what it would be like to be cut open from my trachea to my sternum: I wouldn’t really be able to move because they’ll rip apart my chest muscles when thy fix my heart. I’ll probably have a big wire sticking out of my chest while my bones heal. I’ll probably have an IV in for a long time. I’ll probably have a catheter in my wang for a while. At some point, I will probably poop myself (either in a diaper or in a bedpan). I’ll be completely useless around the house and, depending on what time of year it is, that could just be an inconvenience or a health issue (The Wife doesn’t do what you call “cleaning,” so if this was in the dog days of summer, that’s a lot of spoiled food sitting on the counter). I’ll never be able to pick up Lemon again. I probably won’t be able to pick up the Other One.

After I got all that out of my system (mostly by researching the various surgeries for my condition and my age), I started to think of other people this could be affecting. People like my mom.

My mom went with me to most of my cardiological checkups. I figured she deserves to know. But it’s always difficult to gauge my mom. I remember once she told my dad that she’d never talk to him again if he returned a ski rope to the store. I remember her crying after a conversation we had where I informed her that I wasn’t having sex with a bunch of girls I just happened to be friends with.

One Sunday, The Wife and I and Lemon took the trek up to Flint (murder capital of the U.S.!) to give her the news. I suggested we lead with “Baby number two is on the way!” before we mention that I could have a massive heart attack at any second.

When we got there, my mom was making lunch (it was on a bartender’s salary, so I believe the menu consisted of Eggos and sausage). So we all sat down, I gave Lemon some berries, and said that “We have two pieces of news. The first is that we’re pregnant again.” Mommy got all happy and congratulated us. “The second is that I may have to have open-heart surgery sometime very soon.”

You would expect – especially in this instance where the news revolves around your first born being cut open or dying (the only two choices, really) – is shock or outrage or grief or just bitter surprise and disappointment. What I got was: “Well, you hate to hear a thing like that.”

I think that’s what my grandpa said when we told him my cousin’s son – his middle daughter’s second husband’s older sister’s middle daughter’s oldest son – might be autistic.

When I Told The Wife

 On the way home from the cardiologist, I called The Wife and told her that the news I received was not good (ironically, this was the first time in ten years she didn’t go with me).  She sounded concerned, as well as, I figured, she should be.

On the way home I kept trying to think of the best way to tell my wife that I very well could be dead sometime soon.  The more I thought about it, the more I got choked up.  The more I got choked up, the more I didn’t want to go home. 

For a brief time I blamed her; my default position is to blame other people for anything that happens to me (good or bad).  I thought that since this is the first time in ten years she didn’t come with me, that maybe this was her fault.  I thought that since I hadn’t had a check-up since Lemon was born and that she all but forced me to have a daughter, that maybe this was her fault.

And then I stopped being a jackass and pulled in the driveway.

I told her the whole situation.  She listened with purpose.  But that was it.  No reaction.  I said something like, “What am I supposed to do now?”  She told me that I should do whatever I want.  Remembering my parents’ relationship, I said, “I’m so very sorry for what you’re about to go through.”  She told me that it’s not a problem.

I don’t think she understood the gravity of the situation.  I still don’t think she does.  All she really knew is that I was upset by this and I never get upset by anything.  In order to keep me calm, in order to keep me grounded, she did what all Joneses are trained to do: be the opposite. 

The Wife listened and nodded and smiled at all the right parts of my questions and diatribe.  All I really wanted was someone to be horrified and terrified and angry with me: there’s a good chance I won’t see Lemon grow up; I’ve lived a clean and honest life yet I’m being treated by the cosmos as if I’ve spent the last 60 years eating cheese fries and humping hookers.  She wouldn’t have any of it.

Later on she said she was angry that I was being so dramatic.  Maybe she was right.

Non-Sequitur

At a gay bar, do they have separate bathrooms for men and women?  Does it serve the same purpose?