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. : )

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

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."

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.

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!

Self Poor Traits

Yes, I am a handsome man and these new self-portraits are going to underscore that.

Dig it.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.3

Following the appendectomy/penis torture on Tuesday, I actually went back to work on Friday. I just had to have some semblance of normal again. Well, let me rephrase that by saying that by no means where I work is normal, but I've been there so long that it's a familiar routine. Besides, there was little chance of someone holding me down for a catheterization.

{The silence of the waiting room. Good times.}

On Monday, I had to go back to the hospital for a CTA scan. This had previously been scheduled in July and the hospital had given me the runaround, wasting three hours of my time and generally leaving a a heavy reluctance to reschedule. My wife, in her infinite wisdom, insisted that I call the cardiologist and insist on a redo. Because I wanted to avoid all hospitals at all costs, she called the cardiologist's office, raising hell, and in turn, the cardiologist's secretary got angry at the hospital for telling me that my orders were not correct and I was there at the wrong time.

My CTA was scheduled for 5 AM. Luckily (again) I live within walking distance and so getting there is no hassle for me.

My wait was short and soon a nurse was escorting me to the back. She was impossibly cute, of course, and smart enough to engage in decent conversation. She even laughed at some of my remarks. Not easy at this unholy hour. We did the usual vitals, weigh in and talky talk about meds, family history and medical history. All standard and boring stuff made somewhat easier because of her sweetness.

Now, it's time to insert an IV, don the gown and slide into ze hole. It looks like a huge half donut with a sliding tray. Basically, that's it/ Mine had the name brand of Philips. Not sure what that means, but perhaps Philip-Morris has some hidden sponsorship. Who knows.

I have done one of these before and they are not scary. What is slightly disturbing is the contrast that is used to really highlight the secrets of the heart.

This special injection makes you feel as though you have suddenly dipped into an overheated hot tub beginning with your brain, down through your chest and then suddenly you feel like you are pissing yourself. Yep. They even tell you that. In politer terms, of course.

The donut hole procedure done, you must hang out with cute nurse for a half an hour to make sure you don't have a reaction to the dye. Evidently, I don't have any bad reactions to any drugs except beef, candy, cookies and all the fucking tasty things in the food world. Drugs? He's ok. Food? Watch that man.

Needless to say, it was easy exchanging pleasantries with Nurse Cute and we even shared some personal information. My dad-heart disease. Her dad-same.

Then came my favorite part: time to get discharged. I went home and thought no more of the thing.

Three days pass and at work, my cardiologist's secretary call. Now, this is unusual in so many, many ways. I thought that her secretary never answered her phone and never returned calls.

"Dr. N wants to do a heart cath on Monday."
"Monday??!!"
"Yes, she wants to schedule on for Monday."
"Does she know I just got out for an appendectomy."
"I'll find out and call you back."

With a speed that I had never seen, she calls back and says that she still wants to do the cath.

This can't be good, dudes.

And it wasn't.

More of the bad stuff to follow.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.2

"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?"


It seems after my appendectomy, there was a problem: I couldn't urinate.

(Our lovely model holds a Foley cath. Looks inviting, yes?)

Well, I sorta could with wincing and silent cries as what seemed to be burning liquid passing in a trickle. It certainly wasn't a flowing font. The bladder (and other organs) frequently temporarily shut down after surgery due, as it was explained to me, to the anesthesia. Evidently, mine chose to do this.

Or was this the issue? Nay.

The evening nurse noticed that my output was not adequate compared to the fluids they were giving me via an IV. Mucho IV fluids post-op are common. So, Nurse Wretched gets a machine that takes a sonogram of my bladder and sees that I'm not passing enough. Only one way out of this: a direct cath. (A direct cath is a one-time deal down the sacred pipe whereas a Foley cath is the one they use during surgery. It has a balloon that inflates in your bladder. Exciting and fun, yes?)

It's simple in concept, but excruciating. Perhaps my pain was due to the fact, discussed later and openly agreed with by my cardiologist, I had had my urethra traumatized during surgery. When Nurse Wretched did her direct cath, at the lovely hour of 3 AM, there was a bit of blood and what seemed to be a clot.

[I am sorry this is gross, but there is no way to tell this tale without the grim facts.]


I kept telling them that it fucking hurt. Who listens to a patient?

Well, six hours later, Nurse Dude says (at 9AM) the same thing- time for another cath. The old bladder is full and needs a draining. Holy fuck me in the ear drum!


He tries to be consoling, but nothing can take away the agony. You just take a deep breath and hold yourself back from strangling the motherfucker who is doing it.

Let's count them, shall we kids? That makes three caths so far. Get the picture???? Each one, with the exception of the surgery because I'm out, a screamingly painful affair.

At this point, I'm wondering a few things:

1. Can I slip out of here without being noticed?

2. Why isn't Old Faithful working? Have they screwed it up or are my works still anesthetized?

3. When's my next pain pill?

4. When's my next pain pill?


You better believe I requested pain meds after that. Besides, I was scheduled for meds anyway for the abdomen discomfort. I should have been prescribed meds just for having Mr. Oxy as a roommate who continued his moaning and groaning throughout all this.

My surgeon is alerted to the situation and eventually he shows up. Evidently, Nurse Dude did not tell him about the blood. The urologist is alerted as he wants to do a contrast sonogram of my bladder. Contrast being the dye they put in to see everything on the big screen.

You see, my surgeon is wondering whether or not he has nicked my bladder during surgery (He pretty much admitted this.) and he is probably more worried about that than my pain. Still, I like DR. P and plan no law suits or harbor ill will. I do contemplate the law suit idea immediately after each cath, but can you blame me?

Down to the basement of torture. The basement of CAMC is sort of a menacing place which seems more akin to a post apocalyptic bunker, a warehouse of medical odds and ends, and where huge, scary machines are always on a humming standby.

A young nurse comes and talks to me. She is attractive, but you can't help notice the speech impediment. There's a history there to be sure. She's very pleasant and all, but leaves in frustration with these parting words: "They told me that they were going to cath you upstairs."

Wha??? Cath? Surely not. Another cath? Goddamn. No way. Fuck, I can get out her right now. Fuck it, my water works will come to life at home. In between the caths, as painful as they were, they were already starting to come back. Again, who listens to the patient?

Sure as shit in an outhouse, a young cocky John Stamos sort of lookalike pauses in front of the room, checking his iPhone. He's got scrubs on, so let's assume this is the urologist.

Yep, and in order to see everything the dye is shot into the bladder via yet another cath.

I tell him, the nurse and another guy who I have seen before in radiology, that I have been experiencing horrific pain every time the monstrous cath is done. To which he replies these golden words:

"Why does it hurt?"

Is he fucking kidding? Should I jump off the table and clock him (Let's face it, I probably had no more clocking power than an old Timex after surgery. My wounds were hours fresh and my bladder feels like I drank a small lake full of beer.)?

"I don't know, but there's been blood and each one has been worse than the other."

Despite my tale, it's time to lie down and "take my medicine." He shouts, "Don't hold your breath! Don't hold your breath!" Barking commands at me like he's some DI at Paris Island boot camp. NOT my favorite doctor to be sure. In fact, I'm going to kill him once I get better.

After Niagara Falls flows away, the nurse and the other guy take all sorts of pictures. I have to move around which is painful enough. They are compassionate and kind and I deeply appreciate not feeling like a goddamn test subject.

There I was, exposed in front of three strangers (one of them a woman), my works hanging out and all cathed up for the fourth time. Helpless, hurting like a bitch in my back, my abdomen and of course, Mr. Happy was seriously unhappy. It was then that a change happened to me. I no longer had any embarrassment about my body and anybody who saw it.

This is a Foley and it's staying in. So, no more caths and Mr. Bladder is free and clear. I can stop worrying about this for a while.

Let me say this at this juncture that I had many a sweet nurse who never delayed in bringing this old boy his meds, the standard and the good stuff. My philosophy is this: they have you bent over a barrel, so being an asshole isn't going to help your get what you want. Plus, you have to do some things for yourself. For instance, when the old liquid gold bag got too full, I dumped it into two receptacles provided for such use. One nurse exclaimed, "You did that by yourself?? You are the best patient ever!" Trust me, while her name now eludes me, she doted on me. You have to NOT be a pain in the ass (like my roomie) to them.

You develop a sense pretty quickly which nurses are the creme of the crop and which seem to be nice, but you wonder if they are in over their heads.

Though I went in on Tuesday morning and was released Weds, I began to feel like my mind was unraveling. With the drugs, the endless worry and anxiety, the procedures, my wacko roomie, and the endless parade of nurses coming in at all hours of the night to take vitals, there was a feeling of such chaos in my mind that it felt a bit like an acid trip. I probably had had two hours solid sleep in 72 hours. Sleep is not something you get in a hospital.

There were some comical moments. Always, yes?

I was woken up at 5am to have an intern tell me that my bladder was OK, only to be told a few hours later by another intern the same fucking thing. I was laughing inside at their attempts at gravitas. It wasn't working. I don't listen to twenty-somethings with too much seriousness anyway, let alone those dressed causally in North Face fleece or those that have their names embroidered on clean lab coats. I am a test subject to them, a patient to see on appointed rounds, someone to "practice on." No thanks. Give me a grizzled, old gray haired bastard that's seen it all. Gimme the real doctor please.

(By the way, Urologist John Stamos lite did come in and told me that my bladder was OK. gee, this play is repetitive. I got a call during his brief visit and he turned my iPhone to silent. Hmm....taking liberties are we? Still don't like him. No sir.)

I had my right arm across my forehead and I swung at what I thought was an intruder. It was a sweet nurse who remarked, "Good thing I spoke to you before taking your temperature." Yep. I was a case.

OK.

I was discharged by my surgeon, but there came one huge, disheartening catch before I would be released. Something that was told to me by the afternoon nurse just when my hopes were so high: the urologist wanted me to be able to empty my bladder adequately before discharge. I felt like a prisoner. FREE ME.

After calming down, I realized he was fucking right. Goddamn it.

I set about getting as much liquid into those urine bottles as I could, sitting them up on my movable table like they were bowling trophies.

"Look! Loookie! I can pee! Seriously!" In fact, the pipes, although very tender, were coming back. Hotdamn!

I ask her about discharge again (finding a nurse is much harder than pushing the old red button provided for you) and she announces another bummer: "Your bladder has to be below 100 mils before he will release you."

Trust me, I actually did this. I watched a video on YouTube of Niagara Falls. You know how water sounds makes the pipes flow, so quit laughing. Actually, it was funny to me and by God, I was desperate to get the hell out of there.

Remember that Mr. Demerol was still doing his "Ooooooooooh...........Ohhhhhhhhh" all the time. Well, sometimes they gave him meds which put him to sleep. Thank you very much.

Eventually, I cleared the Golden Bar with a 76 mil count when she finally got the old bladder sonogram machine on me.

I was going home. Yay! Yay!

Little did I know, I would return very soon. More on that soon.

Down with the Sickness: Part 1

"Get up, come on get down with the sickness
You mother get up
Come on get down with the sickness
You fucker get up
Come on get down with the sickness"

"Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane"

It's been an interesting ride lately, kids and I can't say it's been at all pleasant. Our topic for this post is a telling of recent events, that is, events of the hospital kind. Normally people's retelling of their illnesses is as interesting as a C-Span marathon, but I think you may agree that this old boy has been through it. So, read on if you want to hear the ridiculous details of my recent "visits" to CAMC.

[Be warned: some things are graphic.]

Le Prelude

The prelude to all this includes more medical misery. In September, I weathered a sinus infection and bronchitis, not once but twice. It was your basic lung hack-a-thon misery. Fine. That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.

Late October, I notice that my right ankle feels particularly tender after the afternoon shift. I discount it, thinking maybe I just had it at at bad angle. No such luck, dudes.

Gout had returned and knocked out the next two days. If you've never had gout, then feel lucky because it's a continuous painful guest that brings mobility to a standstill. The mere flow of blood to the site is painful.

Get Thee to an ER

November comes and it begins with a pleasant surprise. On the 2nd, I had a nice takeout meal from Soho's (tremendously overpriced and pretentious). My meal was a healthy section of fish with vegetables. Soon after supper, I felt like I eaten too much and my abdomen was too full.

As the evening progressed, a sharp and unrelenting pain appeared in what I thought was my stomach. The swollen feeling continued as well. Bedtime brought no relief, falling asleep for a few hours, I would get out of bed to see if the old trusty bowels were just in need of some relief. Again, brief sleep only to be awoken by the continuous stomach pain. A wretched night.

Finally, it dawns on me that I cannot handle this with with any homemade remedy nor will it leave me alone. It's around 7am and I get dressed and tell my wife that I am going to the ER. We live within walking distance, so getting there is a matter of minutes.

On the walk there, I get a wave of nausea. I fight it, hoping the cold winter air takes it away like it has a thousand times before. Approaching the ER doors, the nausea overtakes me. I instantly realize that I am dressed in such common street clothes, including a hoodie, that I must resemble a homeless man getting sick outside the ER.

This is not going well.

The ER is surprisingly empty and check-in is pretty fast. I'm in a gown and got a bed (Number 13-a number which has followed me for a long time.) in record time. Fine, but the pain is not subsiding.

Doc#1 comes in and I describe all my symptoms: intense stomach pain, swollen feeling in abdomen and a slight pain near my groin. He runs some tests, and in his blessed mercy, he gives me a shot of morphine.

Pain is gone. The room is spinning slightly and I'm making sense in my mind, but not to others. Funny how that works.

More tests, but he says he might release me, but I complain more about the pain near my groin. Like a play or a comedy (Miss Morphine is dancing in my head, of course.), another doctor comes in and introduces himself and I have to start my story all over again. He wants to do a lower abdomen scan.

There goes my chance of going home.

SIDEBAR: In the ER, across the room, is a man who keeps making sounds of pain. "Oohh....oohhhh." This goes on like his mantra. He has some visitors with him. I hear him explain to his family that the cause of his pain in his stomach "musta been them two burgers I ate. Oooohh....Ohhhhh." This guy is in deep shit or drug seeking. A doctor asks him, "Do you drink?"

"Four quarts."

"Four quarts?"

"Two on Friday and two on Saturday."

If this is his sense of humor, then he has chosen the wrong audience because I do not hear the doctor laughing. More on this mystery man later. Seriously.

There is a long-ass delay in the getting the results because of a computer malfunction in radiology, but no one in that department could pick up a phone and tell anyone this. Hours later, Doc #2 has an announcement: "You are having an appendicitis. Looks like we'll have to do surgery tonight." My appendix is enlarged, but mercifully it has not ruptured. To think Doc#1 was going to let me go home.

Surgery? Well, I'll be picking my jaw up off the floor any second now. Up to this point, I have only had minor surgery once in high school for impacted wisdom teeth. Scared? You bethcha, but the morphine, lack of sleep combined with the pain and the reality of my situation all point to the knife. What can I do? Nothing. I must accept this.

Doctor P comes in and tells me he's going to be my surgeon. I like him instantly. He exudes a calm confidence without a trace of arrogance. Now, we wait. Then again, what fucking choice do I have?

Let the Show Begin

Taken up to the prep room, I meet Dr. S, my anesthesiologist. I sort of recognize him from high school. He's a good egg and even though he gives me the obligatory list of a thousand things that could go wrong, I sense he knows what he's doing.

One thing: more than a few people will ask you the same questions over and over. What's your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what procedure you're going to have? Etc.

These measures are reassuring. I want to know that everyone is on the same page. Plus, this is so we don't wake up with our left leg amputated and our appendix right where it was.

A little Versed and we are ready to go.

In the OR, under the tutelage of Dr. S is a young trainee who has an enthusiasm that is not quite inviting. Shall I say she was a little bitchy? Yes. Was it nerves on her part? I don't know, but she puts the mask on me so tight that I can't breathe through my nose.

Muffled through mask, "Can you not put that so tight, please?"

No response. Please, lady, you're smothering me. I know I'm supposed to relax, but I gotta breathe.

Finally, I guess I kept insisting on being heard that they take the mask off, hear my request and replace it properly. Then the lights go out.

That's the beauty of surgery, if any beauty can be ascribed to such a barbarous act, is that when you wake up, you know it's all over but the hurting. The scary stuff is over.

B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T

When you're under, everybody knows that they catheterize you. Here's what I found online about this delightful procedure: "His anxiety was greatly lessened when the corpsman explained to him that the procedure might look painful but actually was not. In addition, the relief he would feel would worth any discomfort he might feel."
Or this: "Catheterization in males is slightly more difficult and uncomfortable than in females because of the longer urethra."

They forgot these little words: screaming agony like a hot fire poker is going down your most delicate bits. I shall elaborate in a minute, trusted readers.

When I woke up, I was in no pain and I instantly knew where I was. I was higher than the moon, but I've been there before. The nurse got my family and off to my room. It was late and I told my wife and my friend to go home. Nobody likes hospitals, so the hell with them staying bedside. I'm out of danger and going to sleep.

Or so I thought.

Your Roomate is a Freak, Dudes

My roomie was......drumroll.....Mr. Pain from the ER. Yes, for hours this man continued his mantra. Friends, family, nurses, doctors: no one could console him. Eventually, they took him to have bowel surgery to remove an obstruction. That can't be good.

Know this to be true: There is no resting in a hospital. None. Just say, "Fuck it" and accept it right now. Whenever the sweet veil of slumber comes upon you, indubitably a nurse will come in and check your vitals, draw blood, weigh you or any number of interrupting procedures. OR your roomie will be a drug-seeking psycho. Yes, it is difficult at best to judge another's pain and I should have compassion on my fellow traveler, but in this case, methinks the dude was mostly faking it.

Then Mr. Pain came back from surgery and slept for a few hours. Then the mantra began. "Ooooohhhh................ooooohhhhhhhh." Every minute on the hour on the minute to the second. Over and over again.

You think I'm kidding or exaggerating just to try to be funny. I wish I was. God likes me a lot the way I figure, but he also likes to endure things that stretch my patience and humanity to the limit. And this dude stretched it to the limit. He even apologized:

"I'm sorry, buddy."

I lied, but replied kindly, "Don't you worry about it." I actually thought: "Motherfucker, shut the hell up!" He wanted to be in a pain med coma and tried every trick in the book, even faking a heart attack (I'm serious) to get more pain meds. Over and over again, nurses and even doctors refused his suicidal request. "Sir, I've never heard of that and we can't give you any more pain medication as you are now at the legal limit." said one young and exasperated intern.

His wife said that he had been on a Demerol patch because he was in an accident years ago.

"Sir, how long have you been on pain medication?"

"Fifteen years."

"How long ago was your accident?'

"Ten years ago."

Eh? I had to ponder that one and still I had no answer.

"What medication were you on?

"Demerol patch, Oxycontin and Valium."

What's that called? The Walking Dead combo? I mean, I appreciate a good buzz as much as the next person, but isn't there some semblence of reality you want to hold on to?

No Sleep, Fresh From Surgery, Freak Roomie: What's next?

The Joys of Catheterization!

Irony, Anyone?

Pardon me, but I have seen some mixed messages on magazine covers before, but this one takes the Whoopie Pie.

Did the geniuses at LHJ miss the blazing irony or are the cynics correct when they say media is only out to make us want things that will never make us happy, but in turn only make us miserable?

The only thing missing is the waif, smiling her empty holiday smile, holding one of these mini belly building beauties.

Sheesh.

It's Like a Finger Pointing at the Moon

"Don't think. FEEL. It's like a finger pointing at the moon.
[Looks at student who is looking at the finger; smacks student again]
Do not concentrate on the finger or you will miss all of the heavenly glory!"

Sir Charles had us in karate fever.

Before being torn away from my home to become a cadet at SMA, Charlie was getting us all into karate. He had been studying with master Kang in South Charleston and in turn, he taught us. Or rather, he tried to teach us. I bought a Gi, the white uniform, and took some classes with Charlie and another Tae Kwon Do teacher, Rev. T.

Imagine a small gymnasium with three young men, all in their teens and Rev. T leading us in exercises. One must warm up the body before the discipline of martial arts, so we did stretches first, push ups (That was when I could do a push up.)- the regular kind and those of the knuckle variety. Then came time for jumping jacks.

This is one of those experiences that was simply amazing. I know we toss around amazing and awesome to describe the most mundane things until those words have lost their meaning, but this was quite so, gentle readers.

So here are, trying to stay up with Reverend T doing jumping jacks. Slowly, he increases his speed. Man, I am just a kid, but already I feel pooped. Then suddenly, and I am not shitting you my friends, he goes into warp gear. The man's body was at a speed where his arms and legs are a blur. He's at a blinding speed. All of us break into smiles, double over to get our breath and watch the Six Million Dollar man break bad. He was driven with pure purpose and it was a beautiful display of athletic grace and power.

Then, up and down the floor, over and over again, doing the forms. "KEE-YAH!" we'd yell as we punch imaginary opponents. "KEE-YAH" comes a forward kick. Up the floor and back again. Over and again. It is grueling and my Gi is soaked. Zowie. I enjoyed the sense of accomplishment, but the physical toll was a bit much. I continued to have sporadic lessons with Charlie, but nothing really ever came from it. Bottom line: I didn't have the discipline. And if you did make contact, it hurt like a motherwriter. No one told me that.

By then, the guitar had already taken hold of me and the mere thought of knuckle push ups was unbearable. Or even worse, breaking my fingers or hand(s). Big wuss that I am.

Denny La Groove

One last addition to the dramatis personae of this time period: The Denmeister (No, we didn't call him that, but I try to keep names vague for obvious reasons.). I met him in the most unusual way.

When I was at SMA, Charlie said he was training a ninja warrior and kept telling me to stay in shape because I'd have to fight him. I did and got pretty good at nunchucks. I practiced them when I could.

Now, why in the hell did I take this seriously? Beats me.

The first time I met Den, we got into a fighting stance and began demonstrating our nunchuck skills to one another. It was like a martial arts movie standoff. I do believe that we both were ready to actually inflict harm upon one another. Charlie - Should we add Manson to your name?

He and Den were best mates at that point and had even shot an 8mm martial arts movie at an abandoned sanitarium (Now the site of a tennis megadome for the $noots of our fair city.). I was just so impressed that they had gone to such lengths. They even choreographed a fight scene and had the timing down pat. This was tribute to the very famous Bruce Lee-Chuck Norris fight scene (This was when back hair was not illegal. Is it just me, or does Norris' body hair seem to grow? Maybe I need my meds adjusted.)

Den was smart, funny as hell, extremely organized and was always thinking ahead. He was an extremely disciplined person at times, even bordering on the neurotic. Sometimes, he and Richard would crawl off into what amounted basically to "bummer" sessions; that is, male bonding consolation sessions whining about girls and playing songs about such. As someone who possesses an artistic temperament and who dealt with the turmoil of adolescence, I could fully relate to the occasional forays into what we might call folk emo today: Neil Young, America, CSNY, et al. If it was soft, acoustic and had lyrics about girl trouble, then these dudes were fully immersed. Trouble is, my occasional bouts of balls-out confidence didn't always jive with their soft, acoustical reveries.

One night, I shot my mouth off.

"Still into Neil Young?" was my sarcastic observation and note of condescension. They looked at one another, but did not reply. Needless to say, my presence was not welcome that night. It was an asshole thing to say, but because I was trying to free myself from the basics bonds of guitar playing, I felt that I had to be critical of who passed the guitar test and those whom I dubbed as lesser-thans. Old Neil was one of them at that time. (Neil is favorite now, as all that "having to prove something" nonsense is gone. I love his style.) This incident passed without notice and we were all pals again.

Le Groove would later be another guitar aficionado, joining Joe, T Bird and myself for Neil Young-a-thons. Even later, he would don a bass guitar for the early days of the band most smooth. (In fact, all but Charlie played the guitar. Curious.)

Mr. Smooth

I met the Smoothmeister atop the Devil's Tea Table-a collection of rocks high above a ridge overlooking the valley. Even in those days, making that hike up to those formations was tough, but because we heard there was going to be a group of people up there spending the night, we just hiked right up. (I wouldn't try today not without a cell phone, a friend and a defibrillator.). No way Jose.)

I remember that there was a fire on a mountain ridge far across the valley. It was like watching a giant cigar ash slowly burning its way across a mountain side. The moon was out and kept watch over these teenage revelers. I mentioned something about the Moonlight Sonata and that was the beginning of our friendship. He liked Beethoven and Debussy; composers quite out of step with the likes of '70's rock gods like Aerosmith and Fred Zepplin. He was digging Brazil 66 and Vince Gauraldi when his peers were shattering their ear drums to Fog Hat and other musical delicacies. In fact, I was to learn that the Smoothenator was sort of out of step with the times and time itself.

You could never count on him to be on time anywhere. If he said a half hour, you must expect an hour to an hour and half to that time. We called it the C Variable. All who knew him knew this fact.
For as smooth as he was, the Smooth was prone to prat falls and such merriment. One such fall was while he was crossing a log and friends saw him tumble into the creek. Physically unharmed, but his dignity was a bit damaged as he emerged absolutely soaked to riotous laughter from his friends. I personally did not witness this, but later pressed him for details. You'd think his ego would be damaged.

But ego was never something he suffered from. You'd never accuse him of being arrogant or cocky, even when he had Jodie-an impossibly hot blonde-as a girlfriend. He was assured of his opinions as if they were facts as if the other person was simply misinformed (This has become more so as time has passed.) and would calmly insist upon his point, but he never has suffered from the blight of the big head.