Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Old Dude Thoughts

I am now fifty-two. That's five decades to you young folks. Half a century plus. There is now no sense in pretending that I am in any way, shape or form, young.


"Come here, you young bastard!"
 No waxing on about the meaning of life, my friends. I don't have a clue, but random thoughts from an old guy.


1. Naps are not only nice, but necessary.

2. Ibuprofen is your friend.

3. Bourbon and rum are not your friends.

4. Interest in the opposite sex remains, but if an ice cream truck goes by, you actually get excited.

5. I like cake.

6. If there is any money in reserve, a major appliance will sense this and decide to break down.

7. Your car does not love you. In fact, it secretly resents you and will break down just to show you who's boss.

8. Mismatched clothes are expected.

9. Black socks and boat shoes are ok.

10. Make crankiness your own.

11. Young people are simply annoying.

12. Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, you may be writing and

13. You're not funny anymore.

14. Everyone else, besides yourself, is an annoying driver.

15. Everyone who disagrees with me is an idiot.



Other Photos















Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Other poems

neither is nor is not
inbetween the bolt and knot
cannons fire, charging flare
drum up silence
in the air

dragging cloud brought to earth
gravity's hold or sinful birth?
eyes sustain or averting gaze
but nothing comes from nothing's ways


to know the place
again so well
where wings are clipped
and wind lifts not delicate feather
but grounded, to bond and teather

Teaching: The Humping Between Three Universities Papers

Oh, stop being a wussy.

Let me just say that I have never worked in real academia. What I mean is the huge enormo WVU-like stadiums of learnin'. My excursions have all been local and in order to protect the guilty, no names shall be used.

A Question of Space

Most teachers are given one teaching "studio." It is theirs and theirs alone. They may personalize this with photographs, awards and their collection of instruments. This makes me laugh. Me? I have been shuffled, scuttled, and scooched into audio-visual supply closets, switched back and forth between rooms so much even my students did not know where to show up, and generally made due sharing with other faculty who seemed hell bent on encroaching upon my time slot and interrupting as much as possible. Do I seem bitter? I should the fuck be.

At one college, it was literally the Audio Visual, instrument, and CD library combined. The well-worn metal desk, the TVs, the old computer monitors, all this stated quite this clearly: we care about you, dude. Feel right at home. It was fun when faculty came in during lessons and wheeled out projectors and TVs.

At another university, I was shuffled between rooms like a deck of cards. Its seems that no other faculty member could give one inch, it had to be me that was the wandering minstrel. One hateful old bat that taught piano interrupted so much that I literally threw my hands up and said, "What's the use?" I couldn't say anything stronger because of the student's presence. Students are not stupid, at least most of them, and the anger was no doubt written on my face like a billboard.

Even this year, I had to move because the local choir wanted to rehearse. It's nice to know that in these uncertain times, some things don't change. One night, two guys were working on the pipes on the ceiling. No one had told the secretary about this. Therefore, I didn't have a clue.

"Do you like that Taylor?"

One of the workers was a guitar enthusiast and he commenting on my student's guitar. My student answered him politely, a short convo about his guitars followed and we tried getting on with the lesson. After a bit, I asked, "How long do you think this is going to take?"

They suggested about five to ten minutes. OK, maybe they will do their work and we can continue. Then, came this tidbit:

"Ya'll should probably move your 'gitar' cases because I'm about to drain the water out of these pipes."

Teach the swine.
 That aborted that lesson and the one following. Two days later, the room was still being worked on. Nobody knew that somebody at the school decided that "work could go at night because there weren't any classes then." That makes sense, but shouldn't they have found out if any classes were being taught? You'd figure, but nooooooo.

Hey, buddy, can ya spare a room?

Voice majors are all divas. This IS instilled by their teachers. One diva-student was sitting in my room as I arrived early for a lesson. I said hello. And then asked if she was here to inquire about guitar.


"No. Madam Von Diva told me we could have a lesson at this time." When I said no, that this time was scheduled for a guitar lesson, she made her voice-dramatic-operatic huff of an exit as if I had just insulted the very fiber of her being. I was NOT going to reschedule, move or make any farkin' accommodations for anybody anymore. Do I seem bitter? Madam Von Diva is a real life diva, but she was very gracious about the mistake and apologized.



"Hi! I'm interchangeable with anyone. Use me! Pay me shit wages!"
During one rather manic and busy period of my life, I taught a three-hour evening class. It was always so satisfying to come to the classroom and find it locked. There, for weeks without change, the forty-odd students and I would stare at each other in disbelief how security would conveniently forget that a class was being taught on Tuesday night from 7 to 10. A student must have had security on speed dial and we'd wait and make conversation about stupid the situation was and why didn't I have a key, etc. Embarrassing and one that was not solved for weeks despite my repeated requests. I love humiliation.


By the time I had taught at the biggest university, I was still sharing an offy with another faculty. In short, I have never had a teaching studio that was mine and mine alone. I am the Fuller Brush man, wandering from house to house, selling my wares. Oh boy. Do I seem bitter?


Do The Natives Seem Hostile?


Out of the blue, I got a call from the department head of the music department. Evidently, their teacher had been called off to the war in Iraq and could I come and fill in?

How could I resist? He asked about several classes and there would be no way I could take on eight students and three classes; not with my already manic schedule.

Let's take a detour here and make this sure as hell true statement: when the iron is hot, it is very, very hot. I was in demand by three universities at one time. It seemed like the work came in like a snowstorm and never say no to work. Crazy ass schedule? Sign me up! Out every night of the week? OK! Run from one job to another with an hour for dinner? Yes! Yes! Yes! I love it. More!


Don't bust your balls. It's only reality.
 OK, back to reality and the story. The guitar class for non music majors was the first order of business. I got the textbook moments before class and hated it instantly. I had never seen such a bass-ackwards approach to guitar in my life, but thought, "OK. Do the best you can."

I was walking into hell and didn't know it.

The teacher had had only a few classes before he was called for duty, but even so, they must have really like him because they certainly didn't like me. For some reason, the moment I walked into the room there was tension. I will say that, in their defense, that it was certainly unfair to have to change teachers. In my defence, they were pretty hostile, uncooperative, and in some cases, downright insolent.


No matter how hard I tried, there was no making any headway with these people. One guy didn't "want to learn no notes. I can already play, man." I told him that reading music was part of the class already established in the syllabus by the previous instructor. What I wanted to say was, "Your playing is shit, your attitude about reading music sucks and quite frankly, I don't care if you stay at all." Always, I keep my real thoughts to myself (except in this blog).

One had a missing string which took him weeks to replace. One kid was so arrogant, he just blatantly ignored just about everything; often breaking into songs he knew. He had a similar malady in that he thought he was already hot shit on the guitar. Again, an unrealistic and youthful assessment of his abilities, but damn it if he wasn't a total asshole to the max.



I told you he was arrogant, but I didn't say he had cohones the size of Texas. The kid went and complained that I was a lousy teacher to some administrator. This filtered down to the department head that hired me and he and I had a long discussion about this ballsy brat. It's always good to have the chief on your side because I knew that this little moron wasn't done. Anyone who so dicked off in class, acted like an ass and had the balls to say that it was my teaching skills (nearly twenty five years without so much of single complaint) wasn't going to stop.



Finally, it came down to test time. This asshole came in and tried to plead his case.

"I suffer from a superiority complex." He thought this was funny. And evidently had no idea to whom he was talking. My friends and colleagues can tell you many traits about me, but humility is not going to be on the list (I am so arrogant sometimes, I scare the shit out of myself). Jesus. I wanted to nail this little prick to the floorboards, but calmly asked which pieces he was going to play. Three were required and I was waiting with the trap set.


He hemmed and hawed, apologized for his appalling behavior over the semester. All the while, I calmly asked what three pieces he was going to play for this, the final exam. When the doofus could not play a single piece, the die was cast, the game over and his nuts were in a well deserved vice. He tried to win sympathies that were never going to come one last time and then, mercifully, he left. I felt like I could breathe again.
Yes, you too can find a rewarding career in education.
The little shit complained to another department head. Of course, he did. Rather than accept responsibility for his own fucking failure and shitty attitude, he basically tried to poisoned the well for any future employment for me. He didn't, but he may have.

The next semester was a breeze. New kids and a teacher who was there from the beginning. Everything clicked, everything gelled. Perfect. But, instead of asking me (or the other part-time guy who drove from Ohio) whether I wanted a full-time position, I was somehow overlooked for the position. I couldn't have said yes anyway, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

All I got was a thanks for "stepping in for us" and taking the heat for a semester. I did collect a modest paycheck and like all part-timers, I knew I had no future at any of these universities. They use you to fill in the classes nobody else wants to teach and to put you on their list of faculty in their catalog. In short, you are used, plain and simple.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Teaching Guitar: The Hurricane Papers

Fresh from getting my master's degree, I was searching for work. Determined that I not end up in an unrelated field and let the four long years I spent getting my degree were not spent in vain, I searched high and low. I spotted an ad in the paper about "Metro Music opening its studios and teachers were needed." I reluctantly (I didn't want to drive that far from Charleston) called the number and this perky woman answered. She asked the standard questions and requested a resume and I sent one. She seemed pleasant enough. What the hell, it was a gig. She eventually called me back and told me that I had indeed had gotten the gig "because no one else was nearly as qualified." That, on paper, was probably true as most guitarists are self-taught and my degree, however useless in the real world, had some cache with my new employer.

Carolyn was middle-aged, perky, excitable, very talkative and had the quirky temperament of most female piano teachers I have met (with some exceptions). She had music and piano paraphernalia everywhere. Treble clef pencils, happy smiling eighth notes dancing on the wall, and other such things that reminded me of my days spent in music education classes. Everything to her was "neat" and I imagined that, in the entirety of her life, she had never had anything stronger than a sip of Apricot Brandy-only on one special occasion. Maybe she had carefully sipped some beer at one point, I don't know. I was, unbeknownst to her, living a carefree bachelor life which included weekend debauchery all in the pursuit of female companionship. More than not, countless money was spent on alcohol and 99% of the time no female companionship was to be had. Nevertheless, I liked Carolyn. She was of a different cloth than me, but we got along just fine.

Metro Music was her parent's house, all cleared out to make way for multiple teaching rooms. Carolyn had her studio on the first floor. When I walked in the door, it was as if she was seeking some adult conversation after teaching kids all day. She wouldn't let me get up to my room without an involved conversation about one topic or another. She paced as she taught her students. Though I think she cared, Carolyn may have had a little bit of "fuck it" about her.

Students followed with her spreading the word, and soon I was teaching two days at week. On breaks, I would walk down to the local grocery store and grab a pre-made sad tasteless sandwich. Though Hurricane looked like it was stuck in a fundamentalist time warp, my employment there made me feel like a working Joe. I had a j-o-b. Not much of one, but still a job.

I had one kid who played bass that had some mighty fast fingers. Every riff I gave him, he devoured instantly. Every exercise, the same thing. Often during lessons, I pitted him against a metronome and the kid's right hand could easily spend the afternoon in the 120bpm and much without a hitch. What my expensive education had taught me about right hand finger movements, this kid had naturally. He was a joy to teach.

On the flip side, I had one poor kid that nearly drove me insane. Carolyn brought me this scraggly looking kid whose family situation was bad and funds were negligible. She, being a kind heart, found a way for him to afford lessons. She, no doubt, was the source of the funds. Every lesson he wore the same yellow punk rock shirt that depicted a guy pissing on some records with the words "Golden Hits." I wondered about the parents who couldn't put the proverbial two-plus-two together on what the kid wore. All this I could look past, but what wore me out was the amount of time he took between each note. Let me illustrate:
Silence for 20 seconds.
A strangled, garbled "E" open string makes its way out of the amp.
Silence follows. For a minute plus.
I inquire, "What note is next?" Silence.
"F?" comes the tentative response.
"Yes. How do you play the F?"
Indeterminate silence follows.

It got so bad, I would stare out the window and watch the birds flying over the fields thinking, "Take me with you, pleeeeasseee!!!" Or I would write poetry to myself about "the dull hammer of meaningless notes." It was not even ambient music, but glacial rendering of notes bearing no relation to each other. It was downright horrible and when Carolyn inquired, I told her the truth. She asked to bear with it because of the poor lad's circumstances. So when piss yellow t-shirt came for his lessons, it was not a teacher's dread of a defiant student, but rather one of the worst boredom I have ever experienced. Except for one other delightful lad.

This awkward lad with braces could not understand between the letter name of a note and its rhythmic value. For example, after drilling him over and again, I would ask,
"What LETTER is that note?"
"Quarter note."
"No, what LETTER NAME is that note?"
Pause. "Half note?"
And this would go on like this for thirty minutes, thus giving me a glimpse of one possible hell especially designed in my honor. That kid, although of sweet disposition, was another that ground away my patience and damaged my teaching enthusiasm.

Let's Digress Again

Ah, but let us digress here for what steady readers may have grown accustomed- a lesson of love. Or lust masquerading as love or divisions thereof. Although I was the first teacher at Metro Music, Carolyn added other teachers and one of them was a violin teacher named D. When mine eyes laid upon the enticing D, I wanted to connect.

Somehow, we began by leaving little messages for each other in the mailboxes. I'm not sure, but I think I initiated it. Carolyn was excited and encouraged our little romantic notes. She enjoyed her matchmaking part.

One note I left was the clincher. Carolyn told me that, after D read it, she replied: "How can I compete with that?" When love (or lust) inspires me, words flow out effortlessly. They may not be Keats or Shelley, but they did the trick. We set up a date.

At the Panda House in South Charleston, we both ordered Zombies- one of those totally frilly and very strong concoctions served in a ceramic cup with parasols. We had two each I believe, enough to make us both happy and hardily enjoyed the spicy and delish food. Conversation flowed easily and I thought secretly that she might work out well as a girlfriend. Well, yes and no, dear readers.

Back to my house and to my bed we went. I'm not sure how long we lingered afterwards, but when I dropped her off at her apartment, I had the impression that perhaps another date was in the bag since the evening had been stellar.

Oh you naive and stupid, stupid man.

You see, kind readers, men are always accused of being the hit-and-run, able to compartmentalize, love-'em-and-leave-'em types while women, we are told, are emotional creatures whose sexuality is inextricably tied to their emotions. Lies, lies, lies, myths and big mistakes. D was out for one fun night and a fuck and nothing more. Despite her being nice and saying yes to my phone call inquiries about another date, somehow she could never squeeze me in. I harbor no ill will against Ms. D, but a little honesty would have gone a long way. I still would have been bummed out. You see, for all my searching on those lost, hazy weekends, what I wanted was a steady girlfriend and D would have been primo. Oh well.

The End of Metro

I showed up at Metro for my usual round of students and Carolyn looks more serious than I have ever seen her. "My husband tried to kill me." She told me that her husband had been in jail for public intox or something else or other (She did tell me that he was a heavy drinker.). While incarcerated, he told the sheriff that, when he got out, there would be "a murder-suicide." Well, true to his word, he came over to the Metro house, armed with a .22 handgun and tried to kill her. The two small bullet holes, one of them going through to the outside, were all the evidence needed to back her story of struggling with her crazy ass husband. The sheriff came and got him-again. You got to love cops sometimes. They evidently didn't think that a death threat was enough to have a psych evaluation or keep him in jail longer. Motherfucker has to go and try to do it first. Ah, our legal system comforts so.

That ended Metro Music as unceremoniously as it began. Craolyn told me she had to move (No doubt!) and get the hell away from the man who was hell bent on killing her. It was, by far, the strangest ending to a gig I ever had. Them's the breaks.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

I Know This Place

"And youth is cruel, and has no remorse

And smiles at situations which it cannot see."


Last night was the first meeting of what will become Tuesday night students. Already, I feel a weariness. This is not a good thing. I mean, evening one and already I feel a bit tired? Oh boy.

Though some would laugh at this, but I feel like I have paid a heavy price for giving private lessons on an instrument which I hold so dear. When I was younger, my skin was so thin. God, every little wrong, real or imagined, would grate my nerves. I never quite knew how to react or how much to react to people. That stuff is still hard to sort out. Now, I might get angry, but my skin is much thicker and I try to analyse what the person might be saying as opposed to completely assuming I know their intentions.

Perhaps the fact that I began so many years ago, giving my first lesson in 1977 while at college, brings on this weariness. I can't imagine what I taught then. It must have been a jumbled mess. Perhaps when I slogged through my days at Mack and Dave's ('80 or '81) at what seemed to be a lesson mill, there was a slow grind at my soul. I met some people, very engaging on a social level, but none ever on a musical one. I recall a 16 year old girl who had long fingernails, painted a bright red, who refused to cut them, even though every week I politely asked. It was an REO Speedwagon song that she never learned. She quit pretty soon thereafter. This was typical.

After graduation in 1986, I resumed some scattered lessons, using a church as my studio. I can only remember one kid who was pretty good on the electric. The problem is that young guys have the attention span of about a minute and I'm not sure what I taught him either. I had one dad who wanted to tape his son's lesson on the then new '80s video technology. Well, he walked around us, aimed over our shoulders and every angle he could get like he was a budding Marty Scorsese. I felt very uncomfortable and said a polite "No" to the documentary the next lesson.

One memorable student was this little boy (Chase? Chaz?) whom the parents and grandpa took great pride in showing off. He was adorable, but they paraded him out like a trained seal. He wore a cowboy hat, et al and tried to take on an adult affect to comical heights. He had even memorized a poem which was slightly bawdy that mentioned women's bras. Not really good child rearing there people, he is a real person after all, not your personal pride monkey. Bizarre.

A Brief Digression About Love I Suppose

I supplemented my income by teaching at home. I had some good students and one pretty memorable crazy bee-atch. Heather was everything I thought a girlfriend should be: tall, thin, long black hair, very artsy, complicated and she smelled heavenly for every lesson. I believed that I deserved a girlfriend like that, being an artsy musician and all. I don't know when I thought it was alright to cross the line and see her outside of the lessons, but all the signs I got from her were positive. We had some very easy conversations. I even went over to her house and the electricity between us (That is at least my perception) was tangible. She even took me up to her bedroom, but nothing happened. She gave me some of her poems to read. There were a few rather enjoyable kisses in my car. We went to a classical concert together. No coffee or cocktails afterwards. She had to go home. Hmm....

I thought the world of her until that big disconnect begins to happen between what we want and what we are getting. I was talking to her about going out with her camera and taking some shots. She may have even invited me, but then the she calls back and goes into this drama about some other guy wants to come and she can't take the jealousy thing. Well, that shot that day directly in the ass. She kept coming for lessons and all the while I knew that she was, at least at that point, playing cruel games with me. She had made a trip to NYC and announced at one lesson, "I thought of you when I bought this book." I think it was "Maurice" by E. M. Forester- a novel about a gay man and the forbidden taboo, etc. That pissed me off. I yelled, "What the hell is this? Do you think I'm gay?" I remember her laughing. Was it just a prank or was the cat playing with the mouse? Let me continue and you fucking tell me. I let the homo implications go and she continued lessons, but I was much wiser.

Let say this, all the while I was seeking counsel about her from a very wise female friend. This girl was not afraid to betray the "secrets of the Guild of Womanhood." One thing women know-other women. She calculated Heather's every move with uncanny accuracy and introduced me to the concept of Intermittent Reinforcement. IR is the worst because it's almost impossible to break free from. You see, whether Heather knew the concept or not, that was her game. It all blew up one afternoon.

The young devil called one afternoon and asked about borrowing something for her class at State. The conversation went smoothly, and she was using IR, but this time was different: I knew that she was just running a game. Everything was civil until I brought up all the issues that had been brewing in my head. She scrambled, trying to lie, but I blew up. It takes me a long time to blow, but when I do a volcano ain't got nothing on me, I let it all out. My tirade caused her to start crying, a move my friend had predicted, and I ignored her tears and let her have it with both barrels, baby. She sputtered something out about her having issues with her mom and that she could possibly "love me" (Ahh, the dagger and the Hail Mary both.). She even said, "Well, I won't be able to take lessons any more." I told her flat, "That's right. That's over too!" I was done with having my head fucked with, so see ya later.

Dear readers, why fuck with someone's head? Why be so cruel? Only her psychiatrist would know the answer to that. Addendum: Many years later, I played a wedding where her mom was getting remarried. I sure as shit knew who she was, but neither of acknowledged the other. That's fine with me. Break somebody else's balls.

Back From the Pangs of Lust

When UC hired me in 1987, my first student was a schizophrenic. At one point, he was looking into the mirror and said, "If you can see their face in your eyes, then you can talk to them. It's called shadowing." Yep, that's me, teaching music to the mentally ill .

At this school, I've had numerous devils who lead me around by the nose for 15 weeks until it finally dawned on me that I needed a stricter plan and a syllabus that was airtight. One student in case: each week he said he wanted something more challenging, so I'd give him a piece and he work on it for a week. The next week, "It's too difficult. Do you have something else?" Naturally, wanting to be a good teacher, I'd oblige. Sometimes it would take two weeks before he's back on the same track. The real kick in the balls was when it came to end of the semester and he told me it was my fault that we hadn't really gotten anything done. That drew a line in the sand for me. After the anger passed, I had a new approach to teaching at the school because I realized that most of the kids I see are about 80% bullshit, want to weasel out of any work and weasel into a good grade.

I had one kid miss for about six weeks and so I assumed he had just dropped the class. To my shock and utter discomfort, he waltzes into the lesson. I bite down hard on my anger- at a conservatory, I would have thrown him out on his ear- and remain as outwardly calm as I can. I ask him where he has been. He announces that other classes, have been so demanding, i.e. writing papers, that he didn't have time to come to class. This kid has balls. He says he can still work up the required pieces in time for the jury. Then we debate the number of those pieces.

"Three pieces for the jury."
"You said two."
"I did not. It's stated very clearly on the syllabus."
"I didn't get one."
"Yes you did. I hand them out the very first class and discuss in detail the requirements for this class."

Seriously, any reasonable person would have said, "Mr. Cock'n'Balls, you have missed too many classes and your attitude is confrontational and you are not telling the truth" and to the exit he would be led, but no, not in this safe haven of mediocrity. I had people above me to whom I must answer.

Jury rolls around and Mr. C'n'B shows up. Of course, I alerted our department head all about this loser and we wait for the big performance. It is a complete failure. Even in spite of all this, he has the utter, breath-taking audacity to ask what his grade will be. "B?" I must have had daggers in my eyes. "What not even a C?" The department head steps in and politely dismisses him. I gave the kid A for audacity, but F for Failure in the class.

Every semester, there are those kids who fail to answer numerous emails, only to act like I've failed to try to get a hold of them. Then they drop. The weariness.

Oh, I've had kids who couldn't play a scale the same way twice. Kids who thought they knew everything. Kids who believed they played better than me. But let me temper all this by saying I've had some real gems: all two of them. To Joe and Mike, they made it all worth it. I also had a dedicated group of guys in a guitar ensemble for sixteen years who worked very hard and had excellent concerts.

This brings us to Tuesday night. I had three students. One of which prompted this blog. This kid acted like he had every confidence in the world. That turns me off right away. A little confidence is a good thing, but he had this vibe. A vibe which told me that we might not be a good match.

We got onto the topic of tablature. Tablature is an old and antiquated way of "reading" music that goes back at least to the Renaissance. Modern notation was a vast improvement over this system, so I tried to make an analogy about technology in the Renaissance. He then told me that the Renaissance was technologically superior to today's world. I quickly jumped in and said, "Wait a minute. I'm talking about notation here." That left him quiet.

Though he told me he had been in a "death metal band" (Gee, no kid's party gigs for you guys, huh?), he read music like a newspaper. Curious. There may be hope yet.

We were not connecting for a while and then I realize something: I needed a new approach. I was getting unnecessarily defensive. I'm not supposed to be getting into a pissing contest, my job is to communicate, to connect. Then I got through.

At least two students haven't bothered to return emails, so I sent them a note saying that class has started and I'm assuming they are not interested. One ignored emails, contacted me then decided to drop before we spoke a word. I can't blame them really. To quote from the Godfather II:

"This is the business we've chosen."

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Poetry and All That Jazz

I heard this poem yesterday on the Writer's Almanac read always by the sleepy, wistful voice of Garrison Keillor. It's one of those moments where a total stranger has captured something of your life. That's what poetry is supposed to do, not to obfuscate, but communicate a universal idea however private and personal the genesis.

I have been an accompanist it seems for many years. Actually, it's one thing that I'm actually good at on the guitar only because I do the one thing that seems so rare: I listen. I actually listen to the other person. Now there comes a point where being the accompanist feels like shackles. The soloist may smile and ask the audience to acknowledge your contributions, but everyone knows this is bullshit. No one cares or goes up to the accompanist after the concert. It's true to life.

The Accompanist

Don't play too much, don't play
too loud, don't play the melody.
You have to anticipate her
and to subdue yourself.
She used to give me her smoky
eye when I got boisterous,
so I learned to play on tip-
toe and to play the better half
of what I might. I don't like
to complain, though I notice
that I get around to it somehow.
We made a living and good music,
both, night after night, the blue
curlicues of smoke rubbing their
staling and wispy backs
against the ceilings, the flat
drinks and scarce taxis, the jazz life
we bitch about the way Army pals
complain about the food and then
re-up. Some people like to say
with smut in their voices how playing
the way we did at our best is partly
sexual. OK, I could tell them
a tale or two, and I've heard
the records Lester cut with Lady Day
and all that rap, and it's partly
sexual but it's mostly practice
and music. As for partly sexual,
I'll take wholly sexual any day,
but that's a duet and we're talking
accompaniment. Remember "Reckless
Blues"? Bessie Smith sings out "Daddy"
and Louis Armstrong plays back "Daddy"
as clear through his horn as if he'd
spoken it. But it's her daddy and her
story. When you play it you become
your part in it, one of her beautiful
troubles, and then, however much music
can do this, part of her consolation,
the way pain and joy eat off each other's
plates, but mostly you play to drunks,
to the night, to the way you judge
and pardon yourself, to all that goes
not unsung, but unrecorded.

"The Accompanist" by William Matthews, from Foreseeable Futures. © Houghton Mifflin, 1987. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Monday, January 17, 2011

Why Always the Junk?

On the way to work, I couldn't resist snapping this junkery on wheels. What is this obsession with junk?

The rusted scrap metal on top looked like it was simply laid on top without nary a thought about the poor bastards who might end with this straight through their windshield. Nice.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wolfies I Have Known



The blue-eyed devil on the right can jump a four-foot fence like Kareem could dunk the rock. (I call her "Snoopy" even though that's not her real name.) Jumping the fence, she prowls and tears open garbage until the alley way is a wreck. I cleaned it up yesterday, so I know.

We all know that our actions have both intended and unintended consequences. Should other people pay for our actions and intentions?

One thing's for sure, when she's out, I try to keep a watch. 


Down With the Sickness, Pt. 8

 "Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;"



FRIDAY:

The new digs were, mercifully, a single room. I don't know if this is standard or not, but I imagine that keeping stress to a minimum may be the idea. That maybe once, the patient's well being is thought of before the bottom line. Needless to say, I welcome the solitude.

Nurses, nurses, everywhere. Four at the moment to be exact. Jodi, who sports a haircut that reminds me a little bit of a Flock of Seagulls with her hair flowing to points that encase her face, seems sweet. There's also Cheryl and the Nurse Newbie from ICU to get me into bed. Plus, one young cutie that reminds me that I may still have actual blood pumping through me.

Painfully as shit, I finally settle onto my back. On my back is where I shall be for a while. A giant water container, filled with ice, is brought to me. I gulp this like a man who's been dehydrated for weeks. It tastes like nothing I've ever tasted. God, is it good and it's that of which I've been dreaming. I am informed that lunch will be coming soon.

Methinks: "Really?" Hunger no, water good.

The room feels hot and I ask for a wet washcloth for my forehead. This cools me down and mellows me out pretty fast. In pops in Dr. S, my anesthesiologist from my appendectomy, and instantly has a laugh about the washcloth. I smile. You have to admit, the man is being extremely nice and thorough at his job. Maybe there's another reason that I don't need to metnion again, but that might jsut be paranoia.

Lunch arrives and as expected, it is a liquid diet. My stomach says, "No thanks," but thirst says, "Drink the milk." The milk is WHOLE milk. This is not a cardiac diet, people. It's skim milk for me from now forward. I don't care and drink the damn thing. If I send it back, there's little chance food will come back before dinner and the damn thing will be ice cold. There's beef broth. It tastes like old shoe soup. God awful. Lunch is over.

What to Do with Yer Time?

Lay in bed, stare at the walls, watch TV, and a revolving rotation of nurses come and go. "Hi. I'm here to check your blood pressure." The cutie has come in and I don't try to muster any charm. I must look and smell awful. I thank her as I do every nurse who does anything for me. They have my balls in a vice.

I am helpless. If I move my arms-pain like God. Move my body? Nay. That inevitably involves your arms which involves your chest. Pain like God. I have the pict line, the neck IV, chest bandages complete with plastic bulb for drainage and a heavy bandage on the left side of my groin. Good times. I am not a man. I am a pain ridden, confused, Percosett popping glop in a gown. A blob on a hospital bed. Color me gone.

The heat in the room seems to be on Blast-O-Matic and this doesn't help the feeling that my heart is running a marathon. I feel every heart beat and it feels like I've got a V8 in there. She's revving for sure. Perhaps I need to find solace in the printed page.

I mention to a nurse that I'm going to try reading and she says, "Yeah, good luck until the room starts spinning around." Goddam if she wasn't right. My eyes can't stay on the words because they keep moving. I give that up and begin the cardiac patient coma chill.

Pain meds come in the form of Percosetts-two of them to be exact. The other pain med is a liquid form of an anti-imflammatory. Either one will do the job, but together they are paradise. You'd figure the Percosett would be wonderful, right? Here's the rub: everybody reacts to drugs differently. The morphine they gave me earlier in the month was an easy ride and did the trick. Percosetts make me so confused that I'm not sure what I want to do, what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to do that all I can do is stare at the clock. The game in my head goes like this.

"1:30."
"It's 1:35. When did I last check. Oh, it was 1:30. When did they give me pain meds?"
TV drone, not comprehending anything, back to the clock.
"2:46."
"What does it matter? Wonder when they will bring dinner?"


At night, the "Percs" give me such thoughts that you would have believed that Salvador Dali was orchestrating my brain. I wish that I had recorded my thoughts, but I was afraid that if anyone heard them, I'd be committed. There were times when I was wondering whether or not my mind was unraveling.

Let me stop here to express something which may not be possible to be expressed. Recovering from major surgery for me was not just about the horrid pain, but the deep psychological confusion which no one warns you about. It feels as though everything you were has been erased and you are starting from a deep, primal place of fear, dread and confusion. Once I hit that room, I began to come back in short waves, but never as a whole. You are damaged, drained, changed, and fucked up beyond the boundaries of what you knew to be yourself.

Told you it was hard to express.

Dinner comes. This meal is not cardiac, but a regular diet. Turkey and mash spud with gravy and to boot, two desserts- chocolate pudding and Black Forest something-or-other in a glass bowl. You'd think I would have delighted at eating "real" food. At that point, the whole idea of ever returning to this hellhole via my own lax eating habits is a complete turnoff. There is one enlightenment: warm chicken broth. I slowly drain it from a bowl with a straw. This is another moment when I realize that I may return to what I used to be. This sounds inane to you, but the smallest things matter when all of them have been stripped from you.

Sleeping, even on heavy narcotics, is a joke. This is a hospital after all. More bus station or railway station than quiet place of healing. My neighbors across the hall wake me from one of my numerous broken half-hour or two-hour sleep sessions with a loud: "ARE YOU ASLEEP?" Fuck, lady, if any of us poor bastards were, we sure as shit were awake now. Thanks. The woman had no "indoor" voice and talked that way all day and most of the night. The neighbors who shared a wall with me evidently felt it necessary to knock against it loudly. The female portion of those neighbors also talked loudly, but it was indelicately tinged with grit holler speak. "You goin' ta bed. now?" Or a huge laugh al a Jesco White: "Har aharhahrhahrhahr." You get the picture.

Thou Art a Vision

Joann was the nurse who came on Saturday morning at 9. Why do I remember this so clearly? Because the woman could have chosen a career in modeling. She was blond, slender and her eyes were a vivid, bright blue. Stunning. She also did her job with absolute professionalism and kindness. When she brought me my meds, she made sure I could swallow them. Not easy after tube city, people. Any question or concerns I had, she answered them very clearly-clear enough for a mud head like me to understand. She also told me some very valuable advice: "Never be shy about asking for pain medication. You don't want to hit that barrier of pain because you will end up taking shallow breaths which could lead to pneumonia." Amen, sister love. I followed her advice and was never shy.

Johann and I shared many intimate moments, though she never asked for them. That is to say, when you go "Commando" long enough, you tend to forget that thou art nakid beneath thy gown. Plus, I could not get out of bed without assistance (though I did because I wanted to get on my feet asap) and she would knock twice and then come right in, sometimes when I was draining the pipes. I wasn't embarrassed (shyness goes very quickly as I have said before) and she handled the situation by turning her back and looking at her computer screen. 

The young and cute Tara had the unpleasant misfortune of helping me bathe. When you notice your own stench, it's time to clean up, Chumlie. The young Tara washed my back and my feet. It felt wonderful and weird at the same time. Wonderful for obvious reasons and weird because I have been with the same woman for many years.   

The evening nurses sometimes were scarce, sometimes seemed a little bitchy and some were angels. On Saturday, I croaked into the call button that I needed meds. Mainly I needed them because my neighbors were thumping about and shouting like invading Goths. This sweet angel came in and with a flash gave me the anti-imflammatory and two Perkies. I slept the most peaceful and longest sleep since Monday. I doped and dozed for about six hours- a personal record up to that time.

You Can Keep My Things...

Sunday comes and my heart surgeon's nurse comes in to inspect my wounds. All looks well. Later, the good doc himself comes in and looks and asks the million dollar question:

"Do you want to go home today or wait another day?"

I want out.

Get those remaining tubes and whatnots out and this blob can go home and begin to feel again. The wheels of medicine move glacially and in a specified order, the lovely and capable Johann got all of them out. Another moment you realize that there may be another side to all this misery. The mandatory talk and discharge papers follow. I'm in a wheelchair and heading out.

It's mid-afternoon and I'm riding in a car to the drug store to get prescriptions filled. The seat belt I hold away from my delicate chest area while wondering what would happen if we get into a car wreck. But we're taking the back roads and that lessens my fears. I'm glad to be out, but not really of the world. In fact, it will take another eight weeks before I feel like my old self.

The first time I shower at home, it's an experience. To see your body so torn up (I had had three surgeries within three weeks.) is quite the shock. I am home, but not. I speak, but don't really recognize my voice as my own. It's still a bit rough and weak. I cannot lift a gallon a milk, nor drive, nor crawl into bed on my own, nor get off the couch without help. Basic decisions are difficult, except one- taking Lortab. Even then, I write down on a slip of paper when I take them because I cannot remember.

I will end this long series by saying this: unless you have been there, words are "useless into the darkness in which they peered." They are blown, incoherent scraps of paper, inadequate to the purpose. There is one truth: there is life before open heart surgery and life after. In order to repay the debt of getting a second chance, I must totally change my diet and begin an exercise program. I've already begun the diet aspect and cardiac rehab will begin the latter. Whatever choices I make here forward, I know I have been made anew and have a sense of obligation to continue a healthy path.

My worst fear in life I have survived. I'm not sure quite how; I certainly do not possess what I would consider the proper courage or fortitude. There is a certain element of acquiescing to your destiny. Like most of the major (and horrible) stuff in life, you are just taken along, adrift with the greater force that pulls you.

One thing's for sure:

they ain't fucking putting that tube down my throat again. : )




Sunday, January 09, 2011

Down With the Sickness, Pt. 7

The tube is out and that starts a new process: dealing with the restrictions and the oncoming chest pain.

Michael goes off shift and a new nurse comes on board. I wish I could remember her name. She was sweet, but single-minded in her duties. I could tell by her movements that she was very watchful and knew what she was doing.

With the room fully lit, something I was not quite adjusted to, I was lying on a bed with all sorts of things stuck in me. The image of old Frankenstein came to mind. I felt more machine than human. I certainly did not feel like myself. It's almost surreal and impossible to put into words, but what begins to ground you is PAIN. Yes, pain is what we avoid in life, but it was pain that was both my hell and my reminder that I could still feel something.

I was cathed (gently this time, mates), had a line in my left leg, the pict line, an IV in my carotid artery, and a chest incision that had metal staples holding it together. My hands were free and my voice was slowly coming back. Again, this condition is impossible to adequately describe.

She was constantly checking the line of drug and saline pumping machines which were lined up on my left. Back and forth, then to the desk for paper work, out the door, back in again. All the time, moving with purpose. I'm trying to sleep- a broken thing, an interrupted thing.

My mouth was so dry that all I wanted was a cold glass of water. Like a pornographic image, this played over in my mind.

"Could I have some ice chips?" I had watched my mother-in-law many times in the hospital and how she asked for ice chips, so I knew the game.

"You can only have one ice chip an hour." Fuck a duck.

Then she told me that it was time to move me on my left side. Is she fucking kidding?? No. She pushed me on my side and then insert a pillow so that I would stay that way. I don't think I screamed, but my cries of pain were probably very similar to my psycho ex-roomie: "Ooohhh. Goddd..."

I stayed that way for what seemed five minutes and then it was time to go on my right side. Same horrible rush of pain. She wasn't fooling around. When it was over and time to painfully return to lying on my back, I figured I had a bargaining chip.

"Since I was a good boy, can I get an ice chip?"

She was reluctant, but caved in. That small chip of ice tasted like medium rare Filet mignon coated in butter. It was heavenly. I must have made some sounds of delight because she asked, "Tastes good?" She smiled. Well, she smiled in her purposeful way. We went around like this with me constantly asking for ice chips while I tried to sleep.

She had to lay me back to do something which I can't recall, but that was excruciating to the chest. Despite the anti-inflammatory drugs and the pain meds, nothing can truly shield you from the raw, naked pain of the chest incision. Fuck you, fuck me, only a coma could work. That's how painful it is my friends.

When my wife and her friend came for visitation, the expression on their faces told me that I was already doing better. They were shocked to see me, sans tube, talking and acting coherent. Seeing family is so reassuring. It's your connection to what you once were (and everything you are) before undergoing this incredibly traumatic surgery.

Nurse Purposeful eventually told my wife and her friend that visiting hours were over. They both felt that the nurse had said this in a bitchy way, but later when I told them that she was sweet to me, they forgave her. Besides, my wife's friend has no indoor voice. It's as subtle as a cannon going off. Not really cool in ICU.

I do not mean to disparage Nurse P at all, she was my angel. She did her job and treated me like I was human being, not just another body on an ICU slab.

Shifts change and now I get a young nurse who was obviously just learning and the older nurse (Cheryl?) who was her teacher. To be honest, I didn't really like Nurse Newbie. Compared to my previous caregiver, she seemed like she was in a rush, that this was an annoyance to her day. By this time, gentle readers, life is slowly returning to your body and you fucking know it. I am aware of how restricted my movements are, my back is hurting, not to mention the horrific and unspeakable pain of the chest incision.

At one point, the TV was on and playing a Jericho marathon. I watched episode after episode and none of it really sank in. My friend who works at the hospital came in and visited. A simple act of conversation with an old pal can transform your surroundings into something manageable. Suddenly, you realize that you have been inside the belly of the beast, but now you are on the outside, not quite free, but neither ensnared. He asked me what I was watching and I told him, but it didn't matter. It was eye noise, a distraction, an airport for a mind that doesn't quite absorb anything.

Then came some arresting news: they were going to get me out of ICU and move me upstairs.

What? How is that going to be possible? No fucking way. I can't move.

Whether it's good medicine or they just need the bed, sure as shit near a doghouse, they began the process of removing the various tubes from my body in order to move me.

"Once you get those tubes out of you, buddy, you will feel better." May I note here how many times nurses have called me "buddy" or worse "bub." Is this a way of neutering the male patient? Am I a "bub?" No. No way.

The line that went into my left leg, this is the one that goes into the femoral, that had to come out. This is a major artery and once you remove the line, pressure must be applied by the nurse for quite a while. Now, after some time has passed, it's time to remove the chest tube. This is so the chest cavity drains naturally. The young nurse is doing the procedure while the older one watches closely. The experienced nurse is a comforting presence.

You have to cough and press down as they pull the tube out. The young nurse rehearses this process and I hear, "OK, are you ready, buddy?" I'm not your buddy, but call me what you want because I want this shit out regardless of discomfort. Cough, bear down and out comes a long tube. Gross,but fuck it, another one out and down.

NOW comes my favorite: cath removal. If you are shy about strangers seeing your penis and balls, then my friends, maybe surgery is just not for you because your stuff is out for all the world to see. There he was, my little friend, no doubt shriveled beyond recognition due to fear of unearthly pain it had been through earlier that month. I have a vivid recollection of these two ladies looking down, as they must, at my most private self, ready to release the foley catheter.

"OK, big breath, are you ready? Breathe out!" Out it came. It's always a creepy feeling when something foreign is sliding out of your urethra, but this was no pain fest. Thank the lord.

The neck IV, the pict line and the chest tube complete with a little bulb that collects the residual blood drainage-these were all that were left in. One last step, get me up.

Nurse Young and Inexperienced and Nurse Cheryl tell me that they are going to move me upstairs as they have a bed ready for me. They position me with my feet on the floor, but I'm still sitting.

"You may experience some dizziness."

No shit. I sat there and watched the curtains first and then realized that the room was moving with my heart beat. Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom-the room and everything in it all pulsed in rhythm of my heart.

"I need time. The room is moving."

"That's OK, take your time." Though Cheryl said this, I sensed the young one's impatience. I didn't give a shit. "This is my moment, my time," I told myself.

Enough of the self-reflection, let's light this candle. I move to Nurse Cheryl and we do a slow, slow turn towards the wheel chair. I am seated.

Suddenly, my body begins to jerk. What the fuck? I'm cold as a bitch in a snow pile. I stutter out my predicament as best I can, the nurses have left me alone in the chair. Some poor guy, who's been sitting outside my room doing what appears to be paper work, realizes my dilemma and gets me a pre-warmed blanket to put on me. That almost instantly provides relief. Bless him.

The ride is fast up to the room. I am wondering why we are moving so fast as nothing seems to move quickly in a hospital. The cool draft as we move shakes me to my bones. I am old, fucked up beyond recognition and heading to a new room. They say that at some point you realize that you are mortal, helpless, not an alpha male anymore, and this causes depression in men after this surgery. This is not that time, but infirm, a resounding "yes." I am at their mercy.

Next" The Fourth Floor, Hotties, Percosett Dreams and a Model Nurse





Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Down With the Sickness, Pt. 6

"Down below on the wreck of the ship
Are a stronghold of pleasures I couldn't regret
But the baggage is swallowed up by the tide
As Orpheus keeps to his promise and stays by my side."
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday were all spent anxiously waiting for Thursday, November the 18th at 8AM-the day when my life would change forever. The demarcation of 52 years of living; some of it in total denial of a tomorrow, spent recklessly like an idiot teenager and some inconsistently trying to eat a healthy diet, enthusiastic exercise periods followed by couch surfing, etc. In short, an average American's life of a head buried in the sand and a deep, blind faith that all shall be well in the land of plenty.

I am one lucky son-of-a-bitch. You see, my father's ghost has haunted me for most of my years. He had open heart surgery in 1970 at the ripe old age of 48 and passed away of a heart attack two years later. I cannot imagine the rough ride my poor dad had, considering the technology and medicine of his time. That fact shadowed me: inspiring me in health conscious bouts and silently tinging my foolishness during times of total disregard.

The morning of my surgery, I was literally shitting myself. I couldn't stop going. Nerves, nerves, nerves. We make small talk, trying to find humor in my situation, but the inevitable happens. The friendly guy with the gurney knocks and it's time. My wife and friend can walk with me to the operating area. There's no resistance on my part. This has to be done.

Winding down this hall to this elevator and down another hall, I'm wondering about everything. There are many moments we share with others, but this one is mine alone. You're on your own and you have to make your peace with it.

We reach our destination. My wife and friend kiss me goodbye at the doors that lead into the operating areas while they are led to a visiting area. My wife's eyes have tears (I don't remember if I did or not). Dr. S, who was my anesthesiologist from my appendectomy, is there and wishes me well. To be honest, I'm not sure if he is there for personal or professional reasons. Professional if he is trying to insure that maybe I won't raise a ruckus over the whole cath/urethra trauma that occurred during the appendectomy earlier in the month.

I am wheeled into a holding area. It has the feel of an airport control tower, only with medical scrubs, hairnets, lab coats and monitors. There are people everywhere and none of them look worried or in a hurry. Just another day, as my friend astutely named it, in "the healing factory." Truthfully, there's probably more factory than healing.

I meet a cheerful man in scrubs and a hairnet (which look ridiculous on men...seriously. This is no fashion forward apparel) who tells me he's going to be my anesthesiologist. He's friendly and we exchange pleasantries. The serious talk follows about how shit could go seriously wrong and I can flat-line on the old table. Always a confidence builder that speech.

Me, being the full coward that I am, ask about calming meds before the surgery. No sooner asked then received. The Versed comes on strong, briefly makes you light-headed, then moves to calmer buzz waters. While the sacred drug is spinning around your brain, he continues to talk to you. He's testing your mettle, you see. The major onset buzz settles and I jokingly ask him, "Did you hear that during my heart cath I had six does of Versed?" I'm not sure if he's putting me on, but he smiles and says yes. Hmmmm.... I'm wondering how that been entered into record:

Dude can handle some serious V.

Patient has partied a great deal his whole life and can handle our meds like a strong martini.

Onto the Slab, Boy

I notice that the attention I get is far, far different than the social atmosphere I encountered before my heart cath. Of course, this is serious shit. To be honest, I was not afraid that I wasn't going to come out of the surgery. Though I had had many assurances from my cardiologist and other folks who were actually praying for my sorry ass, words are wonderful, but hardly much comfort before going under the knife (and saw). Still, I sensed that my time was not up. You can say it's faith, God, or sheer stupidity, but I wasn't worried about the operation as much as the shit I'd have to deal with on the other side.

Boy, was I right.

My surgeon words to my wife was that "the operation went perfectly." Not a hitch. I have a hazy memory of my wife grabbing my hand and tearfully telling me it all went well. Then I descended into the first level of hell.

ICU Blues

During minor surgery, they chemically bring you out of the anesthesia so that you can start recovering quickly. When I awoke from the appendectomy, I knew immediately where I was and that things went well. Movement may be restricted, but pain would be managed. Not so after heart surgery.

I remember that the room was dark, but mostly I wanted that goddam tube out of my throat. With hands tied so that you can't rip it out, you are helpless and in a sense, you are not fully present to the world. In essence, you are alive, but hover between worlds. My aunt said it very poetically after her operation and consequent complications. She told me, "You hover between life and death. You are not really in life, you must let it pass you by." Indeed so, auntie.

My wife said her first visit, all the lights were on. I only recall darkness. She said I wrote in her hand over and over again, "T-U-B-E O-U-T" and "S-E-D-A-T-I-V-E." This is what I wrote in nurse Kristi's hand over and again as well. Both tried to explain to me that in order for the tube to come out, the sedatives would have to be slowly withdrawn.

Now, for all you people out there who have a delicate gag reflex like me (on my toothbrush all the time), you do not constantly gag or feel like vomiting nor choking. You ARE sedated and the tube is already in there. It's not so devastatingly uncomfortable that you feel like you can't breathe. The buffer is the sedative. The sedative must be withdrawn so the tube goes out when you finally breathe on your own.

All these facts didn't make a difference: I wanted it out. Now.

Kristi learned my backwards "air writing" very quickly. The sum and substance of which you already know. She was an angel and never ignored my repetitive and medically senseless requests. I know that I "told" her other things, but it's all a dream state and nothing really holds in your mind.

Kristi goes off shift and a new nurse takes over. Michael is his name. Poor bastard, he has to deal with The Man Who Cannot Understand a Damn Thing. Again, he learns my air writing and the tube out is my song. Over and again, I communicate through my right hand writing as the anesthesia is wearing off and the sedative is being withdrawn. There's the rub.

Somewhere in this process of re-entering the world, you can feel the rhythm of the lung machine begin to go against your own. The mind says, "Panic! You're not getting enough oxygen." The rational mind says, "Slow down, buddy. You're OK. Let the machine do its job." Oddly, I'm not aware of any chest pain yet.

At one point, my right eye begins to tear up. The salt of my tears brings on more and it starts to burn. The same begins to happen with my left. Both my eyes are burning and Michael is not in the room. Dear God, what will become of me? Finally, Michael returns (I suspect"Oh, there's a nurse he's dating or chatting up because I keep seeing this girl hovering.) and I snap my fingers to get his attention. "E-Y-..." He doesn't get the Y. Kristi had trouble as well. We try again. "E-Y-E-S." He looks, gets it and rushes to get a tissue to wipe out my burning orbs.

Out the Tube, Dudes

Michael keeps assuring me that the tube is coming out. He calls the surgeon and the usual long wait follows. We go around the proverbial Mulberry tree for God knows how long. "Your oxygen is a little low, but I'm going to page Dr. D again." (Kristi told me a few days later that the reason that I was low on oxygen was that I was breathing too hard. Hell, I'm hitting the panic button even when I'm sedated.)

Doc calls back and it's a go. Michael gives me instructions and basically you have to cough while el Tube from Hell is being taken out. Fuck, at this point, you can put a tube up my ass, just get it out! It's not pretty, but it comes out. My throat is not sore per se, but it is a little raw.

The voice is a coarse whisper post removal. It remains that way for a while, but this doesn't matter because deep inside your soul your realize one thing: I'm going to come out of this. With that breathing tube gone and the lungs back on duty, you sense almost genetically or primally that somehow you are now starting to recover. Recovery was not even a thought hours ago in that dark (My wife says it was always lit when she came, but I think Kristi keep the lights low when only she held watch on my helpless soul.), machine buzzing and blipping narcotic "dreamare."





Sunday, January 02, 2011

Down with the Sickness, Pt. 5


And So I Wait

In the holding cell, I worried. I even paced. I had big anxiety. Surgery was set for Thursday, confirmed by the good doc on Tuesday.

I felt like I was waiting for my
execution. That sounds a bit dramatic and no matter how much I knew I had to resign myself to my fate, it ain't easy to relax in the meantime. Some of you may have bigger balls than me and I respect that, but I needed meds.

And I got them. Thank mercy for Xanax. Thanks to my cardiologist! There was a funny moment when a resident (She was attractive, of course. I know that's tedious to some of you, but I make no apologies.), all gleaming white coat with embroidered name on the front, came in to talk about
the big op. The topic of the Xanax to combat anxiety came up. The gist of the convo went like this.

"We don't want you to be so medicated that you don't know what's going on. We don't want that."
"Listen, I don't want to walk around like a zombie either, but I'm talking about taking some of the anxiety away until my surgery."
More argument from the intern until I countered with this factoid:
"Do you hear that I received six doses of Versed during the heart cath?"
"Yes, I heard." I doubt she did, but she played along.
"That shows I have a high tolerance for meds."
She thought, she figured out HOW to ask me and then she dropped the bomb:
"Have you drunk a lot of alcohol in your life?"
Oh my little chickadee, my petite flower, thou spring chicken-if you only knew.
My answer was measured:

"I've had my share in my life."

Does an eight hour rum extravaganza count? Naw.

She was judging me, no doubt, as "drug seeking"-a term that medical pros use when the patient gets a little too insistent about pain meds. I was given a 1.5 dosage. I am supposing that the intern set the low bar on that. Hardly a gnat's ass to a 220 some pound man. I asked my doc about why the low dosage and she, knowing my cowardly nature, upped it to 5.0. Perfect.

So I waited, talked to friends on the phone and those who stopped by, called my cousin to whom I hadn't spoken to in probably 40 plus years (Not a riff, just that we are not by nature a close extended family. I believe we have love for each other, but we just don't stay in touch.), read, listened to music and generally tried NOT to go batty while I waited for the knife.

I looked out those huge windows and could see my house. I live a stone's throw from the cardiac
center.

This was both comforting and a total bummer. I wanted to run home at night to get a good night's sleep (thoughts of escape loomed), but knew I couldn't go anywhere but the fucking bathroom. It was that whole double edged sword. Urg.

This Won't Hurt a Bit

When you are a prisoner in a hospital with the date of surgery set, the wheels begin to turn. You can expect to meet different people at all hours of the night-people you probably are not going to see ever again. Around 3 or 4 AM, a pleasant young man rolls in with a portable scanner and says he needs to scan the arteries in my neck. Later in the morning, a woman rolls in and needs to put in a pict line. Oh boy. This damn thing sticks into your left arm, but a line snakes up into your chest real close to the ticker. Creepy, yes? It didn't hurt when she was putting it in, but became a nuisance immediately afterwards.

One older nurse named Delilah (God love older nurses because I do.) came in to give me meds and ended up giving me a mini-religious lecture about worrying and anxiety (no doubt another who frowned upon the Xanies. Hey, it's my chest they are going to saw open, ok? I have a damn right to worry,ok?) She gently, as only an experienced nurse can, took out some I.V.s. She used this liquid to remove the tape painlessly and as she did, she told me some really personal things.

As a younger woman, she found herself about to deliver her first child with the real snafu that she might not survive the delivery. I cannot remember the nature of her illness, but doctors told her husband that they didn't think she would survive the night.
"It was God's will. I didn't have but a 20% chance of surviving the night. Here I am now and have never had any problems since. No where in the Bible does it say to worry. Fear not is what God is telling us."

Hey, I'm going to be honest here. I can no more get the Bible, God, Jesus and all the scriptures out of my being than I could drain all the blood from my body. They are all thoroughly ensconced and despite any clever rhetoric or despite all the sense that Joseph Campbell makes, it all follows like a shadow.

"God has a purpose for you. You will be fine in surgery." They don't pay that woman enough money. So far, I'd have to say that the odds were in her favor. I was precariously close to the Big One and had avoided the disaster. This all because my wife had insisted that I reschedule the CTA. Even my cardiologist wasn't looking to find major blockages. I had skimmed under the wire by my balls, boys. Who in the hell would be ungrateful for that?

Ok, we end here. The really awful, fucked up shit comes next. That's a promise.

Saturday, January 01, 2011

Down with the Sickness, Pt 4


And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live?


Monday, February the 15th, I went back to my beloved CAMC for a heart cath. I had this procedure back in September of last year, so at least I knew the ropes. Let's put it this way: I wasn't filled with utter anxiety and terror as the first.

The usual check-in mumbo jumbo: sign here-med history-what meds, etc. Then the extended long wait before being taken back. We all know the game.

There was one twist to this all too familiar induction. An older nurse had me in a waiting room and she shined a light into my eyes to see if they reacted to light. She asked me point blank if I had taken any pain medication. "No, mam," I said, but thought, "But I knows you gonna give me some good chit later." Besides, who in the hell would show up for surgery already medicated?Some kind of Evil Knievel Jesco? Last year, they started with 10mil of Valium, always a good choice before any procedure. Valium is a bit strong as a choice of a party drug because it puts too far a distance between you and reality, but in the hellish hospital, it takes the inner edge of dread and the outer chaos of a busy hospital far, far away. Oh yeah.

The back and forth from back room to waiting area finally stops and now to the belly of the beast. I had a nurse talk to me about my meds, but unlike last year, she didn't give me the talk about how this procedure is dangerous and could kill you. Yes, they cloak it in more delicate terms, but essentially it's policy to inform the patient that any procedure has its risks. Yes, indeed.

The orderly who transported me to the pre-op area was very funny. He was a black guy who started this almost sing-song rhyme with my name. "Mr. Lange, Mr. Lange's in da house. Oh yeah." Another black guy joined him on the trip and it was apparent that these guys should have their own show. I was laughing out loud at their comments. They flirted with all the nurses as we carted down the hallways. You should have seen the smiles. These guys had fierce game. At one point, he talked about a head nurse: "Oh no, you don't want her bringing the thunder. Uh uh. " Bringing the thunder? Color me a white boy, but I'd never heard that and thought it was top shelf. I'm gonna keep that one for myself.

By the time we got to the pre-op, I felt like a person, not another Social Security, PEIA number.. This simple act, this man who seemed to enjoy his work so much made me feel like everything was going to be ok. He even got me a warmed blanket to put over me. Fantastic. Thanks.

The worst part of a heart cath is the shaving. They have to enter into your femoral artery, not in your leg, which people had told me, but rather close to your groin. It's not painful, but afterwards a large sand bag is placed for 12 hours on your incision to keep you from squirting blood everywhere. BUT, it's shave city, boys and girls. There's not much point in hanging on to your pride or dignity. Give that up and you'll do better.

A kindly, but rather bumbling guy near my age came with the razor. We made small talk as he shaved my leg and other more delicate areas. You make small talk to get over the sheer awkwardness of a very bizarre situation. Dude shaving dude might happen in San Francisco or in private bedrooms in Charleston, but this is not my normal means of entertainment. Of course, this could be an opportunity for some deranged humor. For instance....

"Usually when my boyfriend and I do this, we invite some people over and make it a party."

"You know, I like a man who can be gentle as well as strong."

Another pointer for the neophyte: don't look. It's better to ignore it.

An IV goes in and we know we're close. The waiting game. Then, it's go time.

Get On the Slab, Boy

The OR was cold, cold. You are then asked, in merely a gown, to slide upon a metal table. Cold was ok, it was the atmosphere that bothered me more. Several chattering young people were hovering about and it created an atmosphere of more of a social gathering than a serious operation. I felt like a piece of meat being carted in and then slid onto a metal operating table. Said young people completely ignored the fact that a person was lying half naked on a cold metal slab and is most likely scared shitless. They chatted and joked like they were at a social gathering.

One nurse came up and asked if I was cold. Again, these small acts of kindness make a world of difference. Then a dose of Versed from a young man who was among the louder of the group.

The good doctor finally makes her appearance and I think, "She'll get them to be serious. I'm having a fucking operation here! I matter!" No such luck. I adore my doc and trust her to the ends of the earth, but after all, this is routine for her. Maybe this is how they handle the seriousness of invading people's bodies.

In the end, I was given six doses of Versed. I'm not sure that's a record, but after all those years of being on the edge of different mind-altering states, I am able (mostly) to keep a firm grasp on at least a small parcel of reality.

My doc hovers over me and tells me something about the results. Good thing I'm sedated because the news is bad. I couldn't tell you what she said five seconds after she said it, but I knew the dreaded word "blockages" was key. Oh boy.

I had known that maybe I was in for trouble earlier because I had had a small pre-op chat with Dr. N. She is frank without being brusque.

"The CTA scan revealed some severe blockages."
"Can they be fixed with stents?"
"It's unlikely," she said with a look that said "sorry."
"Shit." I couldn't be more disappointed.

Await Thy Turn

I was placed in what amounted to a holding cell, Well, let's say it was a private room with two flat screens, a couch which was also a fold-out bed, and some very large windows looking out on my neighborhood. I wasn't exactly roughing it, but it wasn't the Marriott in Barbados either. Fuck, I was waiting on news that I knew that was coming. Horrible news. News which has been a deep part of my psyche for years.

Some nurse let it slip even before the doctor could tell me:
"Oh, you're scheduled for surgery?" She said this like, "So, you enjoy gardening?"
"Well, no one has said for sure, but I'm certain that it's going to happen."

In the afternoon, the doctor's nurse came in and broke the news to me. She laid it all out. Every time I tried a loophole, she quietly shook her head no. It was the same when Doctor D. came in the next with the same nurse in tow. His eyes were unblinking, steady, no arrogance, but he delivered a bomb:
"You are on the verge of a major heart attack. Your left artery is 98.8% blocked. There are other blockages, so I may have to do a quadruple bypass."

My friends, we have all been dumped by someone we thought loved us (If you've never been dumped, then you are a lucky son-of-a-bitch.). The shock of those words can barely be described, but they are nothing compared to the feeling I had at that moment. Lift me off the floor now please.

More fun to follow!