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They Finally Got Me

Chapter One


Yes, it's true, I've been got. After years of avoiding these dastardly people they've finally got their rubber gloved hooks into me.

The Medical Industrial Complex has it's money grubbing hands in my pockets.


Along with other places.

It began innocently enough of a Thursday after work. The day was over, I've vanquished the last churl and was moving on with my evening.


"I don't like your color." My girlfriend said.


She can be so cruel when it comes to the fairer skinned.

"I don't like your color either you olive skinned racist."

We talk for a few minutes and chalk it up to the florescent light tubes that coat my office in a hue straight out of Joe Versus The Volcano and go off to dinner.

The next night after work I'm getting into the truck and this time I can tell it's no totally racist comment. She discusses my shade and we decide to see what the experts have to say about it. We head to the nearest emergency room to get a second opinion.


After some time in the waiting room I'm called in to the intake nurse. A pleasant man in his late 20's-mid 30's. He's getting some information from me and he stops, looks at me and says,


"You're yellow, my friend."


"I'm as brave as any man in this zip code, pardner." I stare at him for a moment. He stares back at me. "I see you've never watched a black and white cowboy movie."


We move on to a room. It is of my opinion that you really can't call a space separated by a curtain as a room and to call it a waiting station to death seems a little over-dramatic. So room it is.


The physician's assistant come in (I will note that, in my entire eight hours in the ER not one physician came to visit) and we hit it right off. We're laughing and having a great old time. It dawned on me later that it may have been a little insensitive to be doing a five minute set every time he came in because the laughter might be off-putting to others but, hey, my ass is showing. Gotta keep prying eyes away from that bad boy.


He comes in, sees me and says, "You know you have to stop drinking right now, right?" I say yes because, well, my girlfriend is burning holes in the back of my head and that hurts. And that's the only thing that hurts. By the time this weekend is over I'd answered the questions,


"How do you feel?" and "Do you have any pain?"


Dozens of times to dozens of medical professionals only to respond,


"Fine." and "No."


By the middle of the weekend I could tell I was severely disappointing them. But it was the truth. The only thing wrong with me that we've uncovered is I'm yellow. Other than that, I got nothing. I feel great. No discomfort, not even anything to whine about. I feel like a charlatan for being there.


Finally things get moving. First up, an ultrasound. Being wheeled down into the bowels of the building one had to think, "Oh, this isn't a sexy technology anymore." I swear to you I passed a door with a parchment on it that read, Leeches.


This woman is rubbing a penlight over my stomach and I'm looking at the Kinescope playback and can tell that, okay, I couldn't even tell it was a human body and she didn't seem all that confident either. It could have been a very bad episode of a Playhouse 90 about a barren wasteland that was engulfed with gas.


Because it was.


It was pointed out to me that I was making any accurate visual interpretation of this mess even more difficult due to the build-up of a gaseous cloud that engulfed the region.

A fitting analogy of my life.


After reminding me that I still can never drink again, the physician's assistant says we're going to have to move up a decade or so, maybe bypassing black and white totally and going straight to living color because, other than pointing out if it's a boy or girl, ultrasound hasn't picked anything up since the 60's.


"Then why do you still use it?" I ponder.


"It makes us money and gets you out of the ER for a little while so you don't start complaining about the length of time you're sitting around." Would have been the answer I'd like if there was an honest person in a hospital.


I go to the Cat Scan and it was more of the same. I come back, sit for a couple of hours. This time he's asking how I feel (to recap: fine) and if I'm in any pain (to recap: no). Then I tell some jokes and the room is rocking. Fun time at the old ER tonight. I do have to assume some people, much more banged up than I, have to take offense to that. Oh, like their moaning and screaming in pain isn't bothersome to me. Let's be fair, people.


Before the physician's assistant leaves my girlfriend asks if we're going to be able to go home tonight. He turns around, looks me dead in the eyes and chuckles,

"Oh no, we don't let the yellow ones go."


I start laughing because, let's be honest, that's one damn good reason to keep someone in a hospital.


He comes back awhile later and says he has some information. Not all of it good. To which I think,

"Really? I'm bare assed and yellow what type of good information am I expecting?"


"It's not cirrhosis." He looks at me and smiles. "So, you can drink." I grab him by the shoulder and laugh.

"I knew you were going to say that."


Then he explains that I have a 5.4 x 4.2 cm tumor that is blocking off my bile duct.

"All the bad things in your body started backing up and that's what turned you yellow."


Great, I'm a backed-up toilet.


We're discussing options (the entire time my girlfriend is offering, "Cut it out. Cut it out. Cut it out." Yeah, I think they're aware that's an option) and it's decided that, at 2AM, I'm going to be admitted.


We get to my room and nurses are getting me clothes, sticking needles in my arm for an IV and to take blood (by the end of the weekend I had over 20 tubes of blood taken out of me) and the entire time everyone who came into contact with me would ask, along with how I felt and if I was in any pain, what my name and birthday was. After the twentieth time that happened I said,


"Now, I've repeated this date so often, I expect a birthday present from everyone one of you next year."


It was explained to me that the next afternoon they're planning to stick a high tech grabby thing down my throat so they can put a stint in there to open up the blockage and drain my internal toilet.


"Don't worry," a nurse said as she was leaving. "We'll totally fix you up."


"Good," I said pointing at my girlfriend. "Because she hates Minions."


Yeah, that laughter brought the room down.


After a fitful night sleep for the both of us (my girlfriend was there all except two hours out of the 46 I was there because she had to feed the cats. And I'm glad she was because she actually paid attention to things) that is an embarrassment to the word fitful because, more accurately, it should be called none. In the morning they tell me, before I get orally probed, I have to get an MRI to, hopefully, get better pictures.

An orderly comes in to take me to the MRI. He, of course, asks my name and birthday then asks if I can walk up two flights of stairs and a distance of about 500 yards. I say yes and start standing up.

"What are you doing? He asks.


"Getting up to walk to the MRI."

"No, lay back down. It was a question about what you could do before you got here."


"Oh," I say sheepishly as I pull the cover up over me. "I thought you were asking because that's how far it was."


"Nooooooooo." Ooooooooo, snotty response. When I get out of here I'm going to walk up four flights of stairs and 1000 yards to pop that dude in the face.


I don't know if you've ever had an MRI but the moment you go in there you feel as if you're in a plane. It's uncomfortable, there are weird smells, the whooshing sound never stops and there are so many warning buzzers and bells you know all hell is breaking in the cockpit and we're going down at any time.


Relaxing.


About midway through this experiment ("Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out." Is repeated too many times to count) I thought, "Damn, I've had more pictures taken of my insides this year than my out."

I almost did crack up a couple of times. Just a combination of sounds or a beep phrasing was comical to me. But I never broke, I wanted out of this bad boy and didn't want to do anything to delay. But you needed something to keep your mind from wandering so I estimated the length of time holding my breath ranged from 4 to 20 seconds. So I can totally see why people freak out in this cylindrical torture chamber. I know people who couldn't hold their breath for 10 seconds.


We get back and it's finally decreed that I will get the pleasure of having a metal rod inserted down my throat. And who says romance is dead?

I talk to the anesthesiologist who is tall man so looking up at him from the bed throws off my depth perception. Is he tall or am I imagining this? I guess I'll see for myself when he's next to me at pre-op. They come, get me and we're off.


It was off hours at the hospital so I get rolled into this room with 6-8 nurses and no patients. Oh no, I saw this movie. This is where they 'harvest' the yellow people. I am positive I am not down with this. A nurse comes over and asks me to turn on my side and then, rather politely for what's about to transpire, asks if she can give me a suppository.


"It's not 'that' kind of suppository." She says.


"I would hope not." I say. "Who would do that just before someone gets put under? That would be horrible for everyone in there." The visual is very disturbing. She explains that it's an anti-inflammatory which does make it sound safer for all involved.

I say sure because whatever's going to happen is going to happen because I have no idea where I am (aided by the orderly who 'conveniently' took me to the wrong room first to disorient me even further) so there is no escape. That's when it dawns on me that's the reason they keep your butt exposed. Makes it very easy for the local police to track down a butt flasher.

The anesthesiologist comes in and it's a woman. Wait just a doctor picking minute here. I'm not that out of it. Tall, guy, beard. Let me look again. Short, woman, beardless. Something is amiss here.


"Damn, doc, you've sure changed since I saw you last."


"His shift was over and now you have me." How convenient. Keep this little 'OR' a girls only temple. The horrors that must go on in here.


The doc comes in and it's show time.

Some indeterminable time later, I wake up back in the same space. I don't feel any different so I'm not 100% sure they didn't just spin the gurney around a few times then break for coffee.

I feel myself being moved out of the position. I know that I must continue to be polite so say,


"Thank you." Then I pause because that doesn't feel enough. So, I add, "Thank you for having me. I love what you've done with the place. Very medical."


I hear nurses laugh as one says, "What's this? Open mic night?"


"Everywhere I am is open mic night." I say as the gurney starts to hit the door.

"He's a comedy writer." My girlfriend says behind me.


A comedy writer? I'm whacked out of my head on anesthesia. I'm not sure if I'm actually awake. This proves I'm not a 'comedy writer' this proves I'm one damn great comedy writer.


We get back and my girlfriend goes to feed the cats. I'm there alone and I am out of it. I'm sitting there looking at things sometimes wondering what they are.


"You should get something to eat." A nurse tells me handing me a brochure. I thank her as she leaves and stare at this odd piece of paper. I see food listed but I'm not really sure what to do with it. I know there's a number to call so I'm good with that but there seems so many pressing issues I'm having trouble handling.


What to do?

I haven't done it up to this moment, and it's not an emergency so I feel stupid, but I figure I'll call the nurses desk to help with my dilemma. So, I press the red button.


"Hi, Chris, what's up?" People are always so informal with me.

"Hi, um, I'm not thinking properly." A phrase many people assume I use every day.


"What can I do for you?"


"Do I have any diet restrictions?"


"Nope, anything on that menu is good."


"Thanks." Then I mention the food I'm interested in. I'm not asking her if she approves of my taste, I'm asking her if what I'm contemplating ordering is too much food. I can't figure out if I'm order a feast for the floor.


"No, that seems a fine amount. Order that." I am now so happy. I have been lead in the right direction. It's been a good day after all.

I've met with all the doctor's, they've told me what's going to happen next so with one more signature I'm out of here.


You know what hospitals should not do? Have clocks with second hands. You know what else hospitals shouldn't do? Put that damn clock smack in front of the patient. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The seconds are ticking past and that one signature lingers.


I'm not a sit around kind of guy so this isn't going over well with me. They won't let me change into my clothes, they won't let me leave the floor (okay, good judgement on their part) so I just get to sit there watching the clock tick away.

The only reason I didn't walk up four flights of stairs and 1000 yards to pop that dude in the face was because the final doctor showed up. That she showed up during a goal line stand during the football game did nothing to ease my mind.


But finally, we were released.


To wait for the next chapter.


Chapter Two


“You can’t take that. It's where I keep all my gall.”

I said after being told that, among other things, the doctor I was talking to was going take my gallbladder. He laughed because we’d already spent ten minutes together so he knew what he was up against. I’m just hoping he keeps the jokes to me because I’m sure as hell keeping the removal of internal organs to him.


This meeting was to get a plan of action to not only unblock my bile duct but also remove the tumor that is the cause of the blockage. Here’s how the plan of action is going to move forward:

I’ll be put to sleep for 5-6 hours and the doc will slice me open and take out, hopefully, only the listed items. I have to say this is all very different for me. I’m not saying I haven’t been in the hospital before but it's only been to stop me from bleeding, put body parts back into their original position or stop me from having problems due to a projectile hitting me in a non-prescribed location. I’ve never been legally cut open before.


The worst part is the wait. At first that wasn’t an issue. I was told right from my first hospitalization to the next would be three days. I get to the next place and the surgeon laughs at the other medical team and says they’re prone to do that. I told him maybe they should clue them in to not setting people up like that.


For me, truly the least important cog in this procedure, I can keep my game face on for three days in my sleep. I’m ready to go. But then when I’m told it's actually three weeks out I have to adjust my thinking and figure out if I can maintain my readiness for three weeks out. After a short time putting together a battle plan I know I can do it.


Take the first week and relax. Just do light work and build toward the bout. In the second week you start to focus on the event itself. By the last week I’ll be totally focused on what I have to do to maintain my composure to get through this event.


“No,” says the actually person with the schedule book. “The first opening I have is in six weeks.”


Nope, there’s no way I can stay singularly focused on this a month and a half. I can feel myself backing out while sitting in front of the scheduling book. I have no option so it’s the path I’m given.


The plan is made, I’m giving the cut date so we begin to leave. As we’re leaving, my girlfriend tells the scheduling person that, in the case of a cancellation, we’re willing to jump into their spot.


I stand there silently because I can only think of one reason someone would bug out of this list: they died.


Not really a happy thought.


My girlfriend is more out of her mind than I am about this. She goes through every possibility and I know that’s not comforting. I, on the other hand, know that, to do my part, I just have to be there. I’m little more than a hazmat spill on the side of the road that’s messing with traffic. I have to try to bolster my weight (harder than you think) and not let anything unduly mess with my mind.


We’re not sure it's cancer (although we’re pretty sure it's cancer) so they don’t want me to dwell on that. We’re sure it’s a procedure done many times over the years but it’s a serious operation that has no guarantees. The best-case scenario is I wake up with a scar down my stomach and parts of me that were working just the other day are now gone.


Oh yeah, that’s right, and I’m not dead.


As the time gets closer we start to have appointments with other medical professionals who try their best to keep me calm and assure me they are competent professionals I should totally trust. But I can’t help but envision them in traffic red faced and screaming at the person in front of them texting. That thought sort of humanizes everyone.


Although I came locked and loaded to be aware for any opportunity to be a wise ass, I could tell straight away that's not how these people play. They have a schedule and frivolity is way low on their list. But I came out firing. The sad part is I forget the joke that caused this reaction.


But I do remember saying something so good that I made a doctor cringe. And you don't just get away with saying something sick and getting a doctor to think, "Oh damn!" I caught him trying to maintain his composure while hoping no one saw his blanch (sorry, doc, caught you) and it made me laugh.


A few minutes later a nurse is explaining what they're going to do to me (cut me seven ways to Sunday, take some stuff, leave some stuff), how I'm going to feel afterwards (I mentioned I'd been hit by cars and she said, "That's nothing."), and how I'm going to look and feel coming out of here. All in all she made it seem as if I was going to land on the cover of GQ (Gastrointestinal Quarterly) very soon.


"So," I began to pretend to have a real question about my upcoming splaying. "Will the incision to the middle of my stomach cut into my routine of doing five hundred sit-ups a day?"


Got her!

At first her brain began to process what I said as she attempted to answer it professionally. But when the stupidity of the question was fully formed in her brain her face went from,


"Does he do fiv. . .? Nah, there's no way he. . .Ah, he got me." After that split second, she composed herself she said,


"As a matter of fact, for quite a while, you won't even be able to do one sit-up."


"Good," I respond. "I hate sit-ups."

The biggest problem with going to so many medical appointments on top of one another is jargon overload. This person says this because they think they’re the most important person in this journey. Then the next person gently scoffs at what’s been said previously because now they’re in command.


My girlfriend was defending what one doctor told me because she had so much passion behind her spiel but I told her it’s all changed now.

“I’ve been traded to a new team. Everything we’ve learned up to now is useful but, from here on out, I have to play with these folks and their playbook.”


We’re counting down to two weeks. I have a meeting to prepare me for the next week. I’ve had six weeks to prepare, if I’m not prepared by now, I’m never going to be prepared. But I listen just in case. I don’t closely listen because I’m fortunate. I have a girlfriend who does.


Since the first day she’s been listening. And making sure she understands every word that comes out of anyone’s mouth. If she doesn’t like the concept of what’s being said she’ll be there making sure it gets to a point where she is happy with the concept.


I’m telling you, if you don’t have one of those I highly suggest you get yourself one. She’s been on and she’s been comforting. To see her sleeping on a shitty fold out chaise for days being there to make sure nothing untoward happened to me sure made it easier for me to ignore any medical professional who entered.


Don’t get me wrong, I looked at them when they came in but then they’d start talking and (here I’m blaming it on the medication) I’d float off to sleep. Or, because they were in the way of the TV when there was a goal line stand, I’d loll my head back and forth in an attempt to see the play.


One knew what I was doing because she turned the TV off during the goal line stand. Let me tell you, I was glad to be traded from her team. Who wants someone that cruel as a teammate?


People have asked me what the worst part of this is. As I’ve explained, I’m not in pain, I’m not in discomfort but I am in annoyance when someone asks me if I’m in pain or discomfort. I feel as good as I did in the years up to the diagnosis. Please, trust me when I say, not one damn thing has changed for me.


But I can see the toll it has on my girlfriend. You see, unlike me, she actually has to do things about this. As I’ve said before, I’m the hazmat spill others have to clean up while I sleep. She has to not only deal with me and what we’re going through at this time but also fear for the future.


For me, after me means nothing.

But, in the worst-case scenario, for her she has to evolve into a new life. We’ve been together for twenty years and she sure has to unlearn some of the habits we’ve built that really don’t make for a house-trained human. She has to be concerned about money and my doing the incredibly few things I do other than work. She has to worry about how she’ll cope with a changed environment. How she’ll want to say something only to turn around and see that I’m not there so she has to hope the good angel reminds her it's not polite to say things like that in public.


And she has to do it alone.


I don’t envy her. If I do have sadness and trepidation about this it's about the rest of her life. Learning and evolving stops for me but continues for her This time it continues for her alone.


That’s not a good feeling.


Plus, she has to put up with me in the meantime. And you know how I can be. If you think I’m a caustic bastard and hard on you, you should be there when I’m going all gallows humor on myself. I’ve never apologized for a joke because I find myself thinking, “Damn, if they’d only heard the first version of that joke. . .”


We were walking through a store, probably to buy me food because that’s all she seems to be doing lately, making me shove so much food into my face my jaw hurts from chewing. And she brings up some bread at the house. She tells me that it's sell by date is Saturday (who remembers that shit? I only know things are close to their expired date when they start bubbling up in the refrigerator) but there’s enough to make sandwiches (for me) until Sunday.


“That’s fine,” I say. “It's one day. It's not as if it's going to give me cancer.”


She spins around and I immediately think,


“Whoa, she is NOT ready for humor.”


As we get closer to the big day, as the medical appointments dwindle down to a few, something dawns on me. I’m becoming a person I hate. No, I’m not complaining all the time (outside of a tumor, I feel fine. What’s to complain about?). I’m not droning on and on in the proverbial ‘why me?’ fashion.


No, I’ve become something much worse.


I’ve joined the ranks of the hydrated.


There’s always a glass of water on my work desk (because my boss frowns on it being beer) I gently sip throughout my day. But I’ve become like one of those people who doesn’t leave the house without 192 ounces of purified, polarized, carbonated, electrolyte enhanced, vitamin enriched, hand cured, triple emolliated H2O dangling from their body.


I hate those people and have written scornfully about them in the past.


I didn’t know I’d become one of them until I’m sitting in the truck one day and my girlfriend asks,


“Do you have your water bottle with you?”

And for the first time I embarrassingly answer,


“Damn, no. I’ll get it.”


Before I’m out of the truck I’m castigating myself as a product of an improper rearing. I’ve gone soft overnight. I flash back to a woman in public transportation with one-gallon sized earth embodied, hydroelectrically cured, solar cooled bottles strapped to each side of her backpack. The disdain I had for her knowing that, between the bus stop she was at and her office desk she would have physically walked a total of a football field and a half but saw the need to have enough water to quench the thirst of an entire cross-country track team, was palpable.


And now here I am, no better than her.


I know what you’re saying there, “No, Chris, you have a reason. That woman was just being a silly goose.”


No, I don’t have a reason. You know why? In fifteen minutes, when I get out of the truck, I’m very likely going to be somewhere where, for less than a dollar, I can buy a thirst busting beverage to get over whatever psychologically damaged desire I seem to have to carry water around.


I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in myself.


I’m a couple days to the big day. I’m ready. I know that doesn’t really mean much. It's like the kid they put in deep right field because he’s more interested spinning in circles out there than catching fly balls.


Around 10AM I’ll be out cold and virtual strangers will be doing things to me I’ve only seen in horror movies. I asked them if I could film it and when they took a piece out of me they’d hold it aloft and cackle in their best psychotic mad scientist voice but they said how that wouldn’t ‘appear’ ‘professional’ to the other ‘patients’. But I’m telling you, I feel the sting of artistic oppression right now.


Or maybe that’s the sedative.


Handy Tip!


Here's something I wouldn't have thought of until now so here I am doling out some helpful tips for all you folks out there. You don't have to thank me, it counts against the public service I'm forced to do.


If you see someone, and it doesn't matter how long it's been, and you think they've lost weight it's okay to query them upon it. But that's it. Whatever answer they give accept it and go on your merry way. Now I'm not saying you can't second guess their answer but to harp on it to the person really only, depending on the type of person they are, is an irritant.


"Hey, have you lost weight?"


"Yes, I have. Thanks for noticing."


Is sufficient.


You may have questions but, unless you want to be considered a huge pain, don't go any further.


"Are you okay?"


"Yes."


If you've gone that far, trust me, you've gone too far. But those on the receiving end will accept it because we know you're just a human and can't help but to be nosy.


"No, really. You've lost some weight so I was just wondering."


"I get it. Thanks. Everything is fine."


Now that may not be true but what it is is a plea for you to stop with this line of questioning. Because, for whatever reason, the person being interrogated is not willing, as this time, to go any further with information for you. Respect that.


"Oh, are you sure?"


"Yes, I'm pretty damn sure I know what's going on in my body but right now I've decided not to let you in on it. So, unless you want to spend the rest of your month with people asking you how you got that deep divot in your forehead, you should cease this line of questioning."


Is what we think. But, because we don't want to have this go on much longer, we actually say,


"Yes."


Trust me, if you take this any further you are doing a disservice not only you but to your family heritage.


"Oh, so you went on a diet."


Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.


"So what kind of diet is it?"


Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.


"Did you cut down on carbs?"


"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I did. Thank you for helping me think of a lie."


"I was just wondering because when I came in I noticed you lost some weight."


"Thanks."


"Oh, okay, I just wanted to make sure everything was going good with you."


It's well but okay.


"Because you lost a bunch of weight. So you just cut out carbs, eh?"


And also, please, when that answer doesn't satisfy your inner PI do not, under any circumstances, approach that person and begin to paw on them like a prize heifer. I've had that done to me four times in the last week and, if I wasn't warned about having open sores before the operation, I would have had open sores on my knuckles before the operation.

So please, accept the answer you are given; don't push it; and don't paw it.


Chapter Three


It's the big day!

You'd think I'd be more excited but, really, I'm just going to sleep the day away. How excited can you get for that?


It's a mild day as we drive to the hospital. We don't talk too much. Maybe my girlfriend complains about traffic, other drivers, other drivers causing traffic, but that just made it feel like any other day.


We get in and, right away, it's no nonsense day. Everyone is very efficient and friendly. I guess you'd be friendly to a guy who you knew was going to lose his career as an ab model. The operation before me is called the Whipple Procedure and it will leave a scar down the middle of my stomach from the bottom of my ribs to a little spit curl around my belly button. This will give them easy access to take out a portion of my stomach, 50% of my pancreas, a foot and a half of intestine and my gall bladder.


None of which, I am told, I can take home for crafting.


If you're interested, there is a video of an operation out there but wouldn't you rather see a cartoon?


Things move quickly. The surgeon comes in with the always affable Dr. E (not her actual surname initial) and let's me know everything looks good and we'll be starting soon. The rest of the movement is a blur. I'm being wheeled to a room with people assuring me things are going smoothly.

I'm spun into the operating room and suddenly a flood of questions hit me. I'm looking around for someone not busy to ask these questions to but, wouldn't you know it? Everyone is busy.


So no one was available to answer the question if the Whipple Procedure is named after 1970's commercial icon, Mr. Whipple of toilet paper squeezing fame? After the operation, when I'm functioning down there, I come to the conclusion that the operation is, indeed, named after him due to the copious amount of toilet paper I began using.


Or, if they play music during the operation, is the Weird Al Yankovich song, Pancreas, on the play list? There was another one. What was it? Oh yeah, have you done this operation before?


But I don't have time to ask any of that because, without warning, I am out.

I come to in recovery and I'm being talked at. I don't remember what he was saying but I do remember my saying,


"This is not right. This is bad. I've been hit by a truck and this is initial contact pain." But, unlike being hit by a truck, this pain is not abating. "This is no joke. It feels as if someone tore me open and ripped out my gut. . .oh, never mind."


I'm assured it's normal for one to feel some level of discomfort when one has had vital organs sliced from their insides. Yeah, that seems about right.

The nurses in Recovery were awesome. They were funny, efficient and nice to me. What I didn't know at the time was, boy, I was going to get to know these nurses. It's late afternoon when I get to Recovery. I'm not actually sure what time it is but I know it's later then when I started this adventure. I'm being told they're trying to get a room for me and assure that, when they do, I'll be on my way.


The problem is, so many people said that to me, I started to wonder what the deal was. Sure, I can see it being difficult to get a bed as it gets toward the evening but why are they all assuring me I'll be out of there tout de suite? I'm skeptical on a good day. On a day my gall bladder is on the way to an incinerator I'm not going to just take people at their words.


But there I am still there as hours tick past. I am getting attentive care, no worries there, but I notice one woman giving me the side eye every time she passes. I can't place who she is but she doesn't seem to like me there.


My girlfriend is near and the nurses we deal with are great about her being there. That is, all but one. One makes her jump through hoops just to stay in. She makes her leave after fifteen minutes and wait in the corridor for a while in case some boss comes by. That doesn't thrill me but we make due.


It's the start of my second day in Recovery. I didn't sleep well because, I don't know if you knew this, but Recovery is non-stop. Beside all the buzzers and bells there is a constant coming and going of humans. Groggy people being brought in, less groggy, but still not all there, people being taken to their rooms.


Taken to their rooms. Boy, does that sound good about now.


Some of my extended stay could be considered my fault because, out of nowhere, I'm told I'm having an atrial fibrillation. That A-fib that's all the rage in those commercials you see. While a group is looking at me, the surgeon, Dr. G (his real surname initial), asks if I want him to call an A-fib guy. I tell him I'm good. He looks at me and tells me he knows I don't want any more doctors around. One of the other people asks if I can feel it and I say no. It might be happening in my body but I'm not aware of it.


During a shift change one of the nurses sees me out of the corner of her eye, stops, steps back and asks what I'm still doing here.


"They don't want me mingling with sick people." I respond. She laughs and, as with everyone in this room, gets right to work. I swear everyone working in this room walks close to fifteen miles a day.


Update on my extended stay at Che Recovery: they're still trying to find me a bed. No one is willing to take me up on my suggestion that they just book me in a room at the hotel across the street.


I find out the person who keeps walking past me as if I'm an uninvited guest at a party is the unit manager. And she is still not happy to see my smiling little face in her quick turnaround station. I must be throwing off the matrix for this quarter's bonus. Hey, Snarly? Want me out of here? Go find me a damn room.

I'm feeling none the worse for wear. Tired, weak but I'm not fighting off any pain, nausea, sadness due to the loss of my long-time acquaintances. I'm not saying it would be good for me to shingle a house but I'm surprisingly alert.


Which is sort of surprising to me because I'm furtively sleeping at best. Too much activity, too many people checking in on me, too many distractions. And that sort of amazes me because I once slept through a fire. When I woke up after it was all over and someone told me what I'd missed I didn't believe them.


Then I looked out the window.


Boy, those were days of sleep.

Lying there listening to the rhythms off all the different machines I'm trying to get whatever rest I can. I come out of my half sleep because people are near my bed. I look at them and they're positioned far enough away like in the movies when the medical professionals move out of earshot of the dying patient.

"What is he still doing here?" The Recovery manager asks a nurse. Before the nurse can answer I say,


"I can hear you, you know." She looks at me somewhat surprised that I could hear her. But I've been here so long I'm attuned to the room. I can hear conversations taking place yards away. I can hear the labored breathing of someone being attended to. Beeps and buzzers and footsteps. I hear it all.

I hear the guy who just came in badger his wife and complain about everything. Hey, buddy! You just got here. I'm haven't even got my complaints in yet. Then I listen as he conspires with his wife to seek drugs. I chuckle to myself. I'm the longest tenured patient ever so I've got to know these nurses.

This guy doesn't stand a chance.


When he pulls his, "The pain! The pain!" act. I can actually hear the bullshit detector ring in her voice. He pushes but sees he's not getting anywhere so loses his vigor.


And like that, he's gone.


But I'm still here. Maybe I should tell them I need drugs. It seemed to work for him.

On the second night I noticed something, the only time this room is quiet is between midnight and two thirty in the morning. There's a lightness to the air, a calm on the floor. Even the machines seem to have taken a break. Patients still get attended to but it lacks the sturm und drang of the other twenty-one and a half hours.


By Wednesday a group of the nurses have decided to put a plaque on the wall next to where I have spent more time lying next to than anyone else. Words of encouragement like,


"I've seen you more this week than I've seen my husband."


And, "You don't get out of here soon we're going to put you to work."


And, from a certain someone, "He is STILL here?"


Rain down upon me.

I don't know who was the person who broke it to me that they finally found someone well enough to leave this hospital so I could have a room but someone did. After that it was a flurry of motion.


For them.


I just laid there like a lazy chump.


Wheels unlocked, goodbyes said, waves from people too busy to break away, and best wishes for a speedy recovery from, fittingly, the Recovery unit are offered as I roll around this maze-like room.


This room is vast and confusing as hell, I think as I'm pushed through this hive like room. It's the first time I've seen much of it. My view was limited to an ever-shifting row of revolving patients. All of them, obviously, so much better at recovering then I. I never knew the labyrinth of this room. I also noticed that all the doors were locked and there wasn't a window in the place. If some high-profile famous person ever wanted to hide out the recovery room in the middle of this hospital would be a great, secure place to get away.


I'm thinking these things just as I hit the door to leave. Immediately I'm disoriented by all the new sounds and movement and bright lights. It's jarring to be outside of a cocoon for a few moments. I'd been so used to seeing the same, often surprised, faces; the specific rhythm; the orderly chaos that this new anarchy seems foreign.


Almost alien.


Then it dawns on me it's the colors. I'm seeing bright colors flash by me on clothes, walls, the outdoors. The outfuckingdoors! I'd forgot there was such a thing. Hey look, is that a cloud? That's what they're called, right? It's been so long since I've seen one.

As windows slip past I try to take in as much as I can. All I can really see is the tops of buildings but that's enough. It reminds me why I have all this crap attached, stuck and stapled to me. Because I have things to do out there.

I'm dropped into my room and am happy to see it's a single. I wouldn't have minded sharing a room but I don't think I'd be bringing my A game today. I have to admit, having not spoken to any non-medical people for a few days hasn't helped my social skills. I don't think I'd be a great companion for someone who only wants to talk about his latest procedure.


I've got my own problems in that realm, pal, keep yours behind your gums where they belong.


See? Hardly fit for social niceties.


A barrage of people enter to make sure I'm the guy who they're supposed to poke and probe and generally inundate. I just want them all to leave. I am in a room, soon, hopefully, alone. I get to sleep without the accompaniment of the many. I get to close my eyes alone for the first time in days.


But first I have to take some pills.


But first my temperature and blood pressure have to be taken.

But first my wound has to be cared for.


But, after all of that is over, it seems to be time to rest. And, trust me, I try. I want to sleep but I happen to be right next to the nurse's station and it seems as if tonight is the weekly union meeting. They're talking and laughing and it sounds great. Hell, I'd join them if I wasn't hooked up to all this metal. And I'd be glad to join them if it weren't for this one other little thing. What was that now? Oh yeah, I really want to go to sleep.

After some time I begin to block out all outside noises. I incorporate them into my surroundings and they slowly begin to become white noise as I slowly drift off and pretty much immediately begin dreaming someone else's dream.

It was very vivid without one location known to me. I understood the character was coming to terms that he didn't live the idyllic childhood he thought he did. As he visited his old stomping ground disturbing facts came to light. That old man who everyone watched out for? They were watching out for him because he was, as it turns out, a very adept kid diddler. The tragic house that burned down just before Christmas killing an entire family was actually set by the husband to cover up his killing the family because he was unemployed so couldn't buy them presents. As the dream continued the character coming to grips with this questioned his entire, up to now, successful life. After some time he just couldn't take it and killed himself.


It was a disturbing trek down someone else's memory lane that proves dilaudid is a hell of a drug.

Bright and early the next morning the awesome Dr. E and her merry band of interns stopped by for a visit. I was always happy to see Dr. E. The thing I learned about hospitals is you never know who you're going to get. There is little consistency in the faces you see. I didn't have the same nurse two days in a row. It was like starting over to make a connection every day. just another thing that's tiring about being in a hospital.


But not Dr. E. Every morning there she was. A touch stone to start my day. The only thing, outside of mind-numbing boredom and countless invasive procedures, I could count on. I placed my belief that it was going to be a good day, that I was going to step closer to getting better, the moment I saw her. It gave me the bright spot I needed.


That's not to say seeing my girlfriend wasn't awesome but it was also difficult because I could see the toll this was taking on her. It's easy to see what's happening with the patient but people overlook the loved ones. But I could see it and it made me sad. Sadder even more because I know it was totally my fault.

That'll be a tough debt to ever repay.


A nurse comes in and asks if I'd like to go for a walk.


"You bet." I say as I start to get out of bed.


"Whoa, whoa, slow down there." The nurse says. What a tease. She opened the barn door and then said there were rules? But I did as I was told. Not because she told me but because the IV tube was pulling me back.


Even if I do say so myself the walk was pretty successful. I didn't feel too weak, one foot always went in front of the other in the proper sequence, and I got to see something other than the room. We didn't walk long, a few trips up and down the aisle. I didn't want to stop but I knew I shouldn't push it. Tomorrow is another day.


One of the annoying questions I was asked multiple times a day was, "Have you moved your bowels?" Each time I wanted to scream an old Steve Sweeney punchline in response,


"I haven't touched a fucking thing."


But I just said no. And every time I said it I knew it wasn't a good thing. Instinctively I knew if I didn't drop a deuce quickly something else invasive was going to have to be done to me. I knew I had to get the old shit factory up and running to get some product out or things, not of my choosing, were going to be done.


I told them I'd work on it. I had no idea how I was going to work on it but, hey, I have nothing but time, I'll figure something out.


In the meantime, it seems to me that I'm some type of celebrity around here. Well, not me actually. More like my incision. Everyone I come into contact with wants to see that damn thing. I lifted my shirt more times than a hooker during Fleet Week.

My problem is, I didn't know what they were all looking at. From my angle I couldn't really see much. So I asked my girlfriend to take a picture of it. She didn't want to but I explained that, if everyone else gets to see it, I should get to see it because, after all, it's mine. After a tussle she snapped a picture.


I know some won't want to see it so I won't just spring it on you. But, if you'd like to, here's a link to the picture.


I must say, it was beautiful. As far as closing up a wound goes, it was a Rembrandt. And I know what I'm talking about. I've been stitched up more than a Thanksgiving turkey. And I've had some work that's looked like a train track after a multiple train collision. With gnarly twists and specks of blood left on the tracks. But, even though it was on my body so that took away some of the enjoyment, I have to admire, like everyone else, the craftsmanship.


The next morning, shortly before the shift change, I feel a little rumbling in the old town shit factory. I didn't want to get too excited. I'd had false alarms before. But, this time, I had confidence the boys assembled a worthwhile crop. Now it was up to me to deliver it.


And deliver I did.


A few minutes later, as odd as it sounds, I got to tell the nurse I finally did what she asked pulled a finless brown to the dock. As she walks in to look at it (if I haven't said this already nurses do not get paid enough) I tell her that, when she writes this in her nurses notes I want her to explain it in a manner something like this,


"Minutes before my shift ended I came across a wondrous sight to help end another successful evening. What I glanced upon was a magnificent example of excrement. An unexpected bounty to make my day."


I bet it didn't get into her notes exactly like that.


I'm not saying it became a party like atmosphere but it was a little surprising when my accomplishment was met with resounding happiness. At a minimum it showed I was a big boy and could go all by myself. But then they could have also been relieved to find out they didn't leave any sponges or rubber gloves in there.


That morning Dr. E. said I was a textbook patient. Everything was going according to plans and, with any luck, I could be out of there soon. Excellent. I'm feeling good. I'm looking like shit but they say I'm healing. My mobility is okay, slow, no practicing my twist serve anytime soon. But just to hear the words is thrilling enough.


That doesn't mean another boring, invasive, uncomfortable day stuck in a room isn't in front of me. But I can handle it. I just have to endure and get through it.


And not do anything stupid.

That night I'm beginning to doze off. I can feel myself slipping away when the door is slowly, in an attempt at silence, opened. Just open the damn door! Don't try to sneak in. Why bother? Patients can hear you. Trust me, unless you've knocked us out, we're not sleeping all that soundly. We know if you're walking in you're going to do something to us. And we know you're not going to let us sleep through it. So just open the door like a normal person.


"It's time for your pills." I'm told by the nurse. As much as I tried, for the shift she was here, I couldn't connect with this one. But what the hell. There will be another one by the time I wake up.


I sit up to take the pills like I've done multiple times a day since I've been here. She hands me two small, white pills. I center them in my palm and toss them back. I pick up the water and, as the cup is moving toward my mouth, I feel one of the pills get stuck on a tonsil or something. that's not a problem. The water will clear it.


The problem arrived when the second pill got lodged in back of the stuck pill. I could feel them both wedge in there. One flat against my throat. The second on it's side pushing the first pill from behind.


Again, that's not too big an issue. It would have worked itself out if it weren't for the tsunami of water splashing towards them. I could feel the waves of water flowing toward the jammed pills. it all happened in slow motion and you know nothing good every comes out of an event you remember in slow motion.


The water hits the barricade, the barricade stays in place as some water flows down my previously occupied throat. Almost immediately I start to cough. It's a physically impressive cough, you can trust me here. I could feel the staples pull lightly with each intake of air. Then I would feel a pinch as my stomach contracted. This has been the most activity that areas had since being sliced open.


I'm still violently coughing while the nurse stands there. Not much she can really do anyway but it's nice that she decided to stay for the entire performance. In the middle of that I can feel the two pills begin to dislodge. And in a shot I cough them into my hand. Both of them. Still stuck together. I looked. I tossed them onto the tray while I continued coughing.


"Oh," the nurse says looking at the moist, sticky pills. "I don't want to waste them." Is she talking to me? I think between coughs. "Do you think you'll be able to take them? I really don't want to have to destroy them." Yeah, this crazy bitch is talking to me. I'm not a medical professional but isn't there something more pressing going on here?


I'm coughing. She's harping on about the pills. I'm thinking, "Fucking destroy them. Stick them up your twat. I don't fucking care right about now."


"It would be a shame if I had to destroy them." She keeps saying. "Do you think you can take them?"


Motherfu. . .


I reach over to the tray, pick up the pills, grab the water while I'm there and, between coughs, throw the pills into my mouth and spill water right behind them. I guess I timed it right because they didn't shoot out of my mouth. This time they found the right path. I throw the cup onto the tray and start coughing again.


But at least I made the nurse happy because she didn't have to waste some pills.


It must have been a slow night because I look up and I have an audience watching me. No one seemed to have a solution but they sure must have liked the show because it was SRO for the entire performance. The attending physician joined them and a good time was had by all.


Once I completed my performance they begun to file out in an orderly fashion. I'm beginning to regain control of my breathing. I'm still breathing fast and heavy but I'm out of the woods. And I got to take my pills! Errr, don't get me started.


I'm starting to position myself back in the bed when there's a commotion at the door. It sounds as if someone is trying to move a pedestal TV camera around a studio.


Close. An X-ray tech is coming in with a portable x-ray machine. Are you kidding me? I'm pretty sure the pills are gone. But she came all the way here with this unwieldy thing so the least I can do is sit up and smile.


After the x-ray tech leaves I'm positioning myself back in the bed with the nurse hovering around me. I grab the TV remote, turn on the TV to try to find something on these shitty stations. While the nurse is leaving I said out loud but to myself, "Well, this means I won't be able to sleep for another hour."


And she laughs! I damn nurse laughs. Boy, let's just say I wasn't all that happy right then. To say I put together many scenarios of her demise as she was leaving would not be a wise thing to admit to in writing.


The result of my little 'episode' was, from that moment on, all my pills were cut into tiny pieces fit for a gerbil. That was demoralizing. I told one nurse why they didn't just grind it up and sprinkle it on my tongue. But the most depressing fact is that little jaunt caused me another day or two inside. Damn. Now that's depressing.


But the day finally came! Damn, has this been one long ass week. I feel good. I know I'm not healed. I know I have work to do. I know I can't lift anything. I'll repeat that because it seems to be one of the main things people think I'm too dense to remember. I know I can't lift anything. Did I mention my girlfriend made that abundantly clear?


I'm lying in bed when Dr. E. and the team came in. After some small talk Dr. E. looks at me and says, "I can't think of one good reason to keep you here anymore. So, unless you can, let's get you out of here."


I smile at her and laugh because I feel a connection to her. She's been my one constant on the staff and I don't think that fact gets the credit it deserves. I hope I thanked her properly for that.


Of course it takes some time but I'm finally dressed, sat in a wheelchair and out of the building. I'm different, I know that. Things are going to be different; I know that. but I've had to fight for everything in my life so what's one more battle?


Chapter Four


DISCLAIMER: This is not funny. It could be disturbing to humans, cats and dromedaries. It deals with a period of time when I exited the real world and lived in another realm. It is what I experienced during a mentally unstable time. I cannot say what others experienced while I was out to lunch but, from the bits I've been given, it wasn't all that pleasant for them either.

You have been warned.


Things were going along swimmingly in my recovery. I'd expect no less because I'm a cocky bastard. And sometimes that comes back to bite you in the ass.

Hard.


We had our first post-operation doctor's appointment. The exciting thing was Dr. E. removed my stitches. The scar was still red and raw but it looked good. For what it is. Dr. G. said everything was looking good and I was on the right track. We all agreed to meet again at a later date so my girlfriend and I left and went to get something to eat.


I was feeling so good I was planning to go back to work in a couple of weeks. I was feeling good. I wasn't all that strong but I knew I could slide back into work with restrictions. We were all happy with that and were sticking to the plan. I wanted to start living some semblance of a normal life, or as close to that as I am likely to get, and this was the first step.


And then Friday night happened.


I knew I was feeling better because I was up late. 11PM. I know! I'm a mad man.


Because I was up so late I fell to sleep rather quickly. I was already thinking about what to eat in the morning. Outside of having to get up three to I can't count that high number of times a night to, mainly, shit it was going to be a peaceful rest.


At least that was my plan.


At 11:30 I woke up very uncomfortable. I couldn't find a position to rest. Side, side and back were my only options due to the staples in my guy and tubes in my stomach. I'd roll from side to side in any attempt to ease the pain. I was more pissed than hurt because everything had gone so well up to this point.


I figured something just wasn't sitting well. With the amount of food I eat I wasn't that shocked something jingled when it should have jangled down there. I shut my eyes and tried to force sleep.


What am I? An idiot? Do you know how difficult it is to force sleep? That's like trying to force a cat to do your taxes. Sure, it might sound doable at the moment but when it's all over there's no way you're not going to be audited.


"Is that a hair ball on your W-2?"


"Just the one from that production company. I'm sure you'll find at least pieces of the other ones in there."

The house was quiet and I didn't want to disturb that. I grabbed a pillow place it on my stomach and attempted to rest. I wasn't that concerned because, less than two weeks ago, this team of masked marauders crept in there and stole a bunch of my vital organs. I'm sure if that happens some discomfort is going to be had.


I sucked it up and rolled back over. I did get some sleep but that's like saying, "I enjoyed myself immensely." To your family after spending more than three hours with them. It's a lie and pretty near impossible.


In the morning I went about my now normal rituals because I was going to will this as good a day as possible. I've had pain before. Suck this shit up. This ain't shit. Stand up straight and start your day.


"What's wrong with you?" My girlfriend asked. You know what I said earlier about everyone having a nurse at their side when they're in the hospital? That can also be a pain in the ass. You just can't slip a bad day past them.


"Ah, nothing. My stomach hurts a little."


It's also not good to have a nurse around all the time because they'll tell you, in vivid detail, all the things that can cause whatever pain you're in at the time. And, I've got to tell you, I didn't like what she had to say.


But I told her we're going to wait and see. If it gets worse we'll see if we should wait any longer. A couple hours into my sitting on a chair rocking back and forth with a burning sensation in my stomach I told her we had to go.


"There's no way I can get through today without this being looked at."


"I told you."


"I told you. I told you." Nurses are smug.


We call, they tell us to go to the closest emergency room. I don't think that's the best idea because I know what they're going to do. After a couple to a dozen hours of keeping me in the emergency room they're going to tell me to go to the hospital where I had the operation. And as any good shopper knows, cutting out the middleman brings the savings right to you.


But we go. Can you guess what happens? We argue about how I'm going to get to the other hospital. They want me to go by ambulance, I said no. I know, I know, standard hospital procedure. Ah, shove it. I'm not being capricious about this. First, I've been here for hours and they've done shit to or for me. Second, we got here by our own vehicle so I'm sure I can get to the next place in the same manner. Third, unless there is a magical potion the EMTs are going to give me all they're doing is driving me to the next place. See second point.


We get to the hospital (unscathed and in a timely manner, I will attest) and they jumped right in. I'm walking up to a guy who is already using my name to greet me (a great thing at a fancy restaurant, not so great when it's in an emergency room) holding out another hospital bracelet.

They went right to work getting me into a room (oh sure, there's a room available when I walk in off the street. I see how they are now). People come in, people come out, people stick me with more pins and needles. Didn't I just go through this? But then nothing. I just lie there in another uncomfortable bed.


Listen, I know what's wrong (because I have a nurse). The Gastro-Jejunal (GJ) tube, which is used in case I need a feeding, is leaking. Open me up, take it out, stick in a hose there and suck that shit out. Listen, I have a guy who works for Roomba. I'm sure he can get me a discount on one if that moves things along. Let's work together and get this done.

But then time passes. A whole bunch of time. I'm comfortable, I guess. Not much is really sticking to the brain pan during this time. All I really know is days and nights pass; I'm not allowed to eat anything; my stomach is getting harder and harder; my girlfriend is fighting as hard as possible to have someone to do something to get me out of this distress.


Finally, on the fifth day (I am told. Many of the 'real world' events were explained to me after the fact because my memory is lacking from pretty much after I was greeted by the guy ushering me in until I'm out of the hospital for a couple of days) they take me in and stick a Roomba in there (Thanks, Ange!) or something and take out fluid or blood or bile I don't know. I slept through this part. All I know is they didn't take out any food because I hadn't reached my eleventh day without food yet so they're not going to find any of that in there.


And this is where it all goes off the rails.


Unbeknownst to me (because, at this time, all things were unbeknownst), I slipped into what is gently known as hospital psychosis which is a catch-all for when all the gathered medical professionals get together and say, "What the hell is this?"

Depending on who you talk to the symptoms could be caused by medications, blood infections, dehydration, reduced heart activity but they generally all believe it's exacerbated by a lack of sleep. It causes delirium and mental confusion. Often it includes hallucinations, slurred or confused speech, memory loss, disorientation, paranoia, anxiety, and restlessness. People with it will often be combative with the medical staff thinking they're out to hurt them (classic paranoia there, right?) and, as in my case, spend so much time trying to take out the IV lines.


From here I do not remember any actual, worldly events that happened while in the hospital. All I remember are the unrelenting thoughts that brought me to places better left alone. I know the sequence of events but I do not know the lengths, times or actual places I was in. There was a reoccurring claustrophobic event which seems odd because I've never been bothered by that. I guess whoever was directing these 'head movies' figured that would be scary.


I knew something was wrong when the evil medical professionals stopped me from sleeping by putting bed after bed of howling patients in the room with me. I'm as far away from the door as possible as they crowd in. I'm complaining, I'm bitching, I'm joining the howling because I have to get out. One more person, another one. They just keep arriving. I can't take it any more.

I unhook myself and start leaping across beds. Other patients are reaching at me to try and pull me down. I stumble. I fall. I can feel their hands grasp for me. I'm fighting them off because I know if I stay here I'll never leave.

I seem to fight and kick my way to the door which seems to get further and further from me the harder I fight. I'm winded. I'm sweaty from effort. Hands grab me. People pull me to their haunted, dusty faces as they try to draw me inside. They want what I have, what I'm fighting so hard to keep.


Three, four, five hands are on my shoulders. They're pulling me down towards them. Into their vast. But I won't give up. There's something calling me just outside the door. I can't see it but I know something is there for me.


I kick off a clawing man who has latched onto my leg and is trying to crawl up me. His face is contorted but vacant. As if he is being eaten from the inside out. I grab his face and twist. I can feel the skin flake in my hands. I can feel the bones crumble and dust in my grasp. Just one more push, just one more move and I can be away from all these people. I can be outside. I can save my life again.


I push off from the now decaying man and push myself closer and closer to the door when suddenly a cool breeze is felt by the slowly closing door. I know I must get there is time. I'm mere feet away. I make a run for it over undulating, moist bedding. Over the cracks and moans off all those people, so many people. I reach the doorjamb and feel the cold on my hand. It's not the dry cold of all the people I've fought past. It's a bracing chill of crisp, clean air. I can feel the door on my back as I struggle to pull away from the arms and hands off those who want me to stay. I pull myself halfway out kicking at anyone behind me. I push off the bed and begin to fall to the floor, the cold, rough floor, and crawl into the hall. Into the safety of

Nothing.


I don't know if the next part of the journey was immediate or hours later. I don't know what real people were doing while I was attempting to break away from anything that was trying to gather me. I just know it felt real.


I know the doctors and staff were doing all they could, I knew my girlfriend was on watch making sure as little went wrong with me as possible. But nothing any of them could do was going to alleviate the world which, to me, was as real to me as reading this is to you.


The major difference is you know when you're going to go home.


For some reason I knew my girlfriend wasn't around. And I knew where she went. I had to go there. And in my mind, I did.


I found myself in front of a building that, for whatever reason, I knew she was at. I also knew that it was a holding center for a human trafficking ring. Don't ask me how I knew it but trust me when I say I was going to bust this place wide open.


I burst through the door. Inside this nondescript building in Malden, MA was a room as long as two airplane hangars filled with tents. I begin to approach one of the tents when I large man puts his hand on my shoulder.


"Where do you think you're going?" I pick his hand off my shoulder.


"I'm looking for my girlfriend."


"She's not here."


"How do you know?"

"How do you know she is?" See? It's that kind of logic play that will confuse someone in my mind state.


"Because she came here to shut you down." Psychotic crime fighters, just what the world needs.


I move away from the guy and head into the room. I'm calling my girlfriends name as sounds, metallic groaning sounds, pierce through each tent. With the guy on my heels I pop into one of the tents.

In it where three or five women and girls. Frightened, clutching at me. Their faces looking upward trying to communicate with me. The moaning and piercing. pleading eyes filling their face.


"Where is she? Where'd she go?" I ask. For whatever reason the garbled sounds they made made sense to me. She was out. She'd taken some people out of here. She'd be back. There was more to do.

I look around this crowded tent and, just as I'm formulating a plan an arm reaches in. In a blink I'm standing in an office with the guy from before. He's on the phone trying to explain my breech to someone. The words from the other end of the line are not kind ones, I can tell.


He hangs up the phone and tells me to sit down. I begin to ask him questions which he calmly deflects. I begin to unfurl my story about knowing what's going on here and letting him know, in no uncertain terms, that I'm here to shut him down.

"Sit down or I'll make you sit down." He says pushing me into the wall. I can feel the anger build inside. I take a step towards him and am pulled back from behind into a seat. I can't find anyone else in the room but, there I am, sitting on my ass. Once i regain my thoughts I stand up and start calling for the police.


"Police. I've been assaulted." I call and call but the guy just laughs. That doesn't stop me. I move quickly to the door and start calling again. The guy grabs me and is trying to pull me back into the room. He's losing this battle.


Finally, a cop arrives and I am immediately disheartened. The cop looks just like the guy in the office. They're all in on it. I know I'll have to figure out another way to save everyone in here. Until I come up with that plan I figure it's best to go along with what the guy says.


I calmly sit back in the chair and begin to listen to him. He's telling me that my girlfriend had never been there. He tells me everyone is there of their own volition. He tells me if I leave now he won't press charges. That makes me laugh.


"You're the one trafficking in humans." He laughs again.


"Get anyone to believe you."


He has a point here. I have to do something.


"If everyone is here on their own why can't I talk with them?"


"Oh, you can. You just have to follow the rules."


"What are the rules?"


"Visitors can't wear pants."


"Now that doesn't make any sense. Can't you just give visitors badges?"


"Those are the rules." He stands up. "Are you going to follow the rules?"


"Fuck no." He sits down.


"Then we sit here."


And sit we do. The entire time I'm trying to figure a way around his rules. My girlfriend can't be long. She has to come back. look at all the people still here. We can't leave them here.


"Your girlfriend won't be coming back."

I turn my head towards the guy. How did he know what I was thinking? Is he right? Who is he? What if he's right? Why does he have that untrustworthy smile plastered to his face? Where's my girlfriend? What if he's right? What if she decided to go hang with the cats? I can't do this alone. I'm going to have to get help. But who?


Just then an idea hit me. I know who to call but it's not a who. It's a them. Three friends, each with a unique skill that will come in very handy this evening. But how do I get in touch with them? This guy never seems to get off the phone. At that moment he turns to me,


"Are you ready to comply?"


I begin to answer him just like before when I start to think, what's the big deal? After what I've been through in the last couple of weeks what's another several hundred people seeing me naked? Especially if, in the end, I help them get released. I tell him yes.


A smarmy grin grows above his chin. It's then I am convinced that he's the one who made up the no pants rule. I also know it's for humiliation which brings him joy. I don't even have to ponder the breadth of my life to come to the conclusion that, after the very recent history of my life, another few hours of humiliation is a breeze.


Off come the pants.


I'm standing there for entirely too long while he slowly folds and files my pants. What if he misfiles them and I can't find them? What if that's the reason for this. Is this how they collect clothes for their captives? Can someone turn the heat up in here?

But I really can't be concerned about this. It's not a big deal. I'll have one of the boys bring me some pants. Not one of them would even flinch at that request. Do I know how to pick a team or what?


He leads me out of the office and I'm searching the area. I'm looking for a cop who doesn't look like the pant thief and a phone.


"Wait right here and I'll get someone to assist you."


I get paranoid for a moment. Is this a set-up? I am pantless. That has to be against some law, even in a den of human trafficking. Off in the distance I see a guy who looks official. Vaguely familiar too. The guy who made me take off my pants is getting an earful from the official guy. I lean back against the wall to enjoy his dressing down when I notice a phone.


Convenient.


I dial. Now I don't know how I got all three of them on the phone at the same time but, damn, wouldn't that be a cool thing? Dial one number and get everyone you need to talk to about this subject. But then I think maybe they were all sitting around Scott's house (because he lives closest) waiting for my call. When I have that thought it must have dawned on me that that's a crazy idea because even I shook my head at its ridiculousness.


As I start to talk to Bob (while wondering why he was answering the phone at Scott's) I see the official guy pointing at me with urgency. It takes a beat but the literal pickpocket sees what I'm up to and starts running toward me.


"The guy is coming at me and he's heated. Get Fred and get here." I hang up the phone knowing I pretty much nailed it in the imparting full information game.


"What are you doing? You can't use the phone? Who did you call?"


"The pizza man."


That seems to stop him. Of course it would. After all, who wouldn't want a pizza after kidnapping people and pants all day?


"An unknown vehicle is pulling into the parking lot." I don't know who said that but it made the guy I've been dealing with very nervous. Moments later, Scott, Bob and Fred come bounding into the building.

"Who are you?" The cop says. The boys ignore him and walk up to me.


"What seems to be the problem here?" One of them says.

"You're trespassing." They are told.


"I'm sure that's not the worst crime going on here."

In a flash the guy who has been tormenting me grabs me and starts to wrestle me into the office. It happened so fast the boys could barely react. He also caught me off balance so it took me a moment to react. When I finally did I noticed the office was now pitch black. Little more than a hole. I don't want to go into that hole.


I kick out the guys knee then jam my palm into his chin. He releases me and as I regain my footing it's a left, right, left combination into his ribs, jaw then on the button. He falls to the ground. The boys come gather me and we begin to leave.


"Where do you think you're going?" The official looking guy asks blocking the door with the cop who looks uncannily like the guy I just knocked out.


"Leaving." One of the boys says.


"Not so fast. This police officer and I just saw that man assault one of our counselors."


"He assaulted him first." A boy says.


"Didn't you see that?" Another one asks.


"I did not." He turns to the cop. "Did you officer?"

"No sir, Mr. Mayor."

The mayor! That's who it is. But wait. He's not the mayor of Malden. Hey? And the cops badge doesn't say MPD. It says LPD.


That's who he is. He's the mayor of Lynn. Of course! He wouldn't want to run a human trafficking ring out of his own city. Think about the bad press he'd get.

"Do you want to press charges?" The mayor asks the guy I punched.


"Why don't we take that up with the Malden PD?" I ask.


"What do you think because he's not Malden PD he can't arrest you? He's working a detail here. They know he's here." The cop activates his microphone.


"We're going to need a back-up here."


Well, that sure bursts our bubble.

"You're going to jail for sure."


"Okay, I'll take my chances but are you" I ask.


"What are you talking about?"


"Sure, I punched a guy who was holding me and my pants hostage but how are you going to explain all of them?" They all turn around to see a countless number of faces staring back at them. "I'm sure they'll have some stories to tell."


The mayor thinks over his options. Which are few.


"Okay, I'll let them go but, you have to be punished for assaulting my employee."


Just then the boys kick open the doors to the building and the people begin to storm out. As the mass moves toward the door and freedom the cop and mayor try to stop some of them. The boys hold the doors laughing at blue police lights dance across everyone's face.


I take this opportunity to make a phone call. Why I didn't make this call first, well, we'll just chalk that up to a touch of the crazy.


This is also when my psychotic world bumped up with reality. I know because, long after this episode was over, I heard the message I left.


"Hey, it's me. You have to come and get me. The cops are here, I think they're going to arrest me and I don't have any pants."


I'm pretty sure one of the last things you want to do is go to jail without pants.


"Okay," the mayor says. "We'll make a deal. You stay under house arrest here for twelve hours and I'll drop the charges."


"What about him?" I ask. I want to use the 'he started it' defense but don't get the chance.


"Oh, he'll be here too. He's working the overnight."


I look at the mayor, the guy, my boys and say,


"Okay, but I get the nice bed. I have to get some sleep."


As I walk into the bunk room the boys stopped me. This is a point in the story where even my psychosis has psychosis.


"Chris," one of the boys says. "That's not what he said. He said you can leave if you're out of the city in twelve minutes."


We didn't even say goodbye.


Almost immediately we're on the road. It's been decided that I have to get away for my own good. One of the boys knows a place where I can chill. We're all hoping this works out.


But it doesn't.


It seems like a good move. We pull the van into the living room of the house and they set me up for an optimized sleep situation. But I just can't get there. Every little noise or light or movement or air molecule shakes me like a paint can.

I toss and I turn. I snap and I argue. I want to sleep. I can find no way to sleep. This tale went on for quite a while. Night, a long, cold, dark night turned into a damp and moist day. And I got to see it all. The boys were being great. They did everything they could but even they had to concede that what I needed was beyond even their combined talents.


We told the people living in the garage they'd have to leave. Then we told the group who'd buried their van on its side so they could sleep in it underground they'd have to get the crane hooked up, get the van out then fill in the hole and fix the landscaping.


When you think about everything that was going on around the house is there any doubt to why I might have had some trouble sleeping?


By this time I don't know how long this has been going on. All I know is I am beat. I'm sure I'm making no sense. The long, convoluted trips I've been taking have taken their toll. I can feel the exhaustion in the battles being waged in my head. And I don't feel an end is in sight.


During this time my girlfriend is fighting to not only keep me alive but also from being admitted to a facility more suited to handle the likes of me. But she knows that would be the worst thing for me. To keep me confined could allow this episode unfettered access to my psyche.

One of the best things she did during this time was to forbid them from giving me Haldol which is used for schizophrenia, bipolar disorder mania, delirium, agitation, acute psychosis among other things. Sure doesn't sound appetizing.


As I've said before, if you don't already have one, get yourself an advocate if you ever find yourself hospitalized. They are quite possibly the difference between a good or bad outcome.


I'm in a room. It's a dark room but high intensity lights blink at various intervals. I'm strapped on a board. I'm immobile. I'm fighting the restraint and have some hand movement so my hands never stop reaching out to try to find something to help me escape.


I'm being kept in constant motion because the board I'm strapped to is on a conveyor or pulley or HO scale train tracks. All I know is I'm going around and through and past items and walls and glaring lights and blaring sounds over and over and over.


If I wasn't already crazy this would have carried me there.


The entire time I'm on this crazy ride someone is ordering me not to do something. Don't sleep. Don't look over there. Don't look over here. And, it seemed to me, most importantly,


"Don't touch that."


Don't get me wrong, I was touching things. I was touching the shit out of things. Every and anything I could get my hands on. I hadn't eaten for quite some time and, as even you would, really want to eat. As it happened, as I was rolling past things, some of it was food or candy or something. I honestly can't make out what it was. But I wanted it and knew I could eat it.


If only my arms weren't bound.


I did the next best thing. I tried to put it in my pockets for later. The problem was I couldn't reach my pockets either. I'm going around and around. Every once in a while I'd be stopped and they'd spin me in slow, disorientating circles. The entire time I was being commanded to do or not do things. I don't remember all I was told. I was too busy trying to figure out how come my pants were absorbing anything I put on them.

The first time I noticed it I was holding a piece of food. Then I was startled by screaming and a blinding light. By the time I orientated myself the food was gone. At first I figured I'd dropped it. But no. I could feel it in my pants. I could feel it move down my pants. I'd kick my legs figuring it got lodged in there and I could kick it out.


No. It was actually absorbed into my pants.


I would feel the item in my pants and claw and pull to get it back. I could feel it but couldn't access it. After a while I'd find something else that captured my attention. But this time I was smarter. I'd keep it off my pants. But, inevitably, the pants would get it. And I'd get mad which would make the person controlling my movements and environment click on her microphone and tell me to knock that shit off.


At one point I wanted to see just how far my pants would take it. I grabbed at a scarf.


"Don't grab at things, Chris." The voice would order. "Lay back down. Don't move. Don't talk."


"Fuck you, voice." I would think while trying to combine all my physical and mental facilities (which I will admit at that time were both in short supply) to try, at the next pass, to get that scarf. Or a statue. Or a pillar. I didn't care. I just wanted to see just how much my pants could absorb.


I'm going past the scarf again. I see it so start planning my timing. I know this is my last shot because the voice and all the minions working behind the scenes will make it impossible to reach it. We're going past, I stretch and pull against the restraints, my fingertips touch it and start scrambling to slide it into my hands.

And I'm successful. The scarf is in my hands. But even before I fully have a hold of it, my pants start to absorb it. I start pulling against it trying to keep hold of the scarf.


"Stop playing with that scarf, Chris."


"My pants are absorbing it."


"No, Chris, your pants are not absorbing it."


"Then how do you explain that the scarf is gone?"


Funny how the voice never had an answer for that.


Suddenly I realize I've been still for some time now. I am also noticing that the lighting is normal. I can see around the room. What a mess. This place is a pit. Am I in a basement storage room? Nothing makes sense in here. It's a total mishmash of items.

Hey wait, is that my captor? Wait a minute, is that my captor eating a bagged lunch? While we're at it, let's wait another minute. How come my hands aren't bound? This will only take another minute. I can actually stand up and walk off this board.


So I do.

I stand in the middle of all this mismatched, crumbling, decrepit junk, turn towards the voice while she's biting into a sandwich and say,


"Hey!" She slowly turns her head toward me. Fear filters slowly into her eyes. A half-chewed sandwich sitting on her tongue. "You're bringing this weak ass shit." I say waving toward all the crap cluttered in this room. "TO ME???"


I start to run towards the glass separating us. A few steps from her frightened face, I'm ready to lunge at her and the lights go out.


Moments I come to and I'm standing in line. Someone behind me is pushing me toward this overly wrought haunted house.


"Kneel down here." I'm told from behind as I'm pushed inside some type of hedge.


"What do I do?"


"Just be scary." The voice says as it exits.

Moments later I realize I'm not alone. Two people to my left begin to moan and make scary sounds as some people are being fed into our little area. Think a low rent haunted house were faces pop out of cardboard walls to scare you. But the demons are real. The faces of the people I see are truly frightened. I feel bad for them. They didn't sign up for this.


"Scare them." The person to my immediate left tells me. "The better you scare them the better it is for you."


I look at this one frail, shivering husk of a person and muster all of the scare I can gather and say,


"Boo." Then I laugh and begin to ask how they're doing.


"You're not supposed to do that." The voice further down on my left yells. I ignore them and speak to the person in front of me.


"Go back inside. It's cold and rainy here. Go put a coat on."


The person turns and walks back into the building.


"That's just about enough from you." Someone says behind me (why are they always sneaking up from behind me, those pussies?). They lift me and toss me into this dark, smelly room.


"What the fucks been going on in here?" I ask trying to figure out why I feel so confined. It takes a few seconds (or three hours of reality time) to figure out that I'm stacked up in a coffin on top of a coffin on top of a coffin repeat as you see fit.

Everyone is talking but no one is making sense. Everyone is peeing so the room is pungent and everything is wet. The noise is deafening. The sounds around me are sounds of fear. Sounds of despair. Sounds of the defeated.


And I'm getting out of here.


"Don't do that." Someone offers as I begin to fight to squeeze my way out of the coffin.


"They get mad if you try to leave."


"Don't fight it and they'll make it easier on you."

"Fuck them. They've been fucking with me all day. I'm out of here."

Amidst the screams of caution and plaintive warnings I begin to climb. And I climb. Hands, arms, teeth, heads all reach out to me trying to force me back. I rappel down them just as I repel their warnings. I reach the bottom and someone reaches out and holds me tight in their arms.


"Don't go. They never let you leave."


I push my way from this person take a step back and fall and fall and fall into


Nothing.


It could have been around this time (but how would I know?) that my medical team, including the awesome Dr. E., decided to, to paraphrase, "Get him the hell outta here."


It was decided staying institutionalized any longer left me at a high risk for loonie bin status. My girlfriend, of course, agreed even though she didn't know how she'd handle me alone or how long she could do it.


"I figured I'd give it a week." She told me later. To which I responded,


"That long? You do love me!"

But that doesn't mean I was done having moments. I had some moments I still swear are true even though I've been told they weren't. I believed they put me in a room that was right below the helicopter landing zone (who knows if they even have one) because they didn't want me sleeping. I don't remember when my great friend, Scott (yes, one of the boys), came to the hospital to help my girlfriend out. Later I sent him an email asking how he liked psychotic Chris. His response was,


"Not so much."


Later, we went to lunch and he said, "It's nice having my lucid friend back." I appreciated that.

There was moment when I hugged Dr. E. and admitted, "That was scary." I don't know if that actually happened but I needed to tell someone. I wonder if I ever did? I also don't know if I said to her, "Well, I guess I'm not in the textbook anymore." She looked at me, smiled and said,


"You're still in there. It's just in a different chapter."

How can you not like a wiseass doctor like that? Even if she didn't say it.


I don't know if a nurse came in, stopped at my bedside and said, "It's nice to have you back. We lost you there for a while." In my altered state I figured she was talking about the one of the many times I'd 'escaped' from my room to travel on an adventure.


Or maybe he said it because I was dead.


I'll probably never know any of the answers to all the questions.


There were countless moments of babbling my girlfriend had to endure. Not one moment of it was easy for her. As difficult as it may have been for me, all I remember are things I know not to be true. For her it was nothing but reality. I'm sorry but, once these tales are out there, they'll never have hold of me again. I'm not sure she can ever say that about what she went through. I saw a picture of me taken when I was home.

I sure wouldn't have wanted to see that distorted face day after day after day.


But she did.


I'm lying on a circular bed. Like something Wilt Chamberlain would have in the 70's. I have a set of headphones in and I'm listening to music. It started as Gato Barbieri but wasted no time in rousing me with Eric Dolphy. I sit up throwing the headphones off when I see this guy and immediately mistrust him. I have to get out of the room. So I stand up watching him watch me, turn and find myself at the edge. If I take another step I will fall to my death.


I look around. My girlfriend is sitting in a chair reading a magazine. The room is odd. It's an M.C. Escher drawing made of crystal. Standing there I cannot figure out how to move. I am sure one small step and it all shatters. This is the balancing act I have to traverse if I want to get through this.


It's work. It's hard. I have many false steps trying to get to my girlfriend. I find an elevator but the buttons shatter or crack when I press them. I walk through one room, the floor rippling glass, only to find myself standing outside looking in. I can feel the cold wind of winter. I look behind me and I'm outdoors. I can get home from here. I know this area. I worked around here years ago. I know exactly where to go. But I look around and see my ride isn't here.


I find myself in another tight area. This one made of crystal. Rough, sharp crystal. I'm standing there babbling at my girlfriend who adopts the 1970's cure for any mental illness,


"Snap out of it."


I absorbed what she said and, in my head, I responded with, "I'm trying, but it's not that easy." But I'm sure, by her expression, what she heard was indistinguishable from a trash can rolling in the wind.

I can almost touch her but, for whatever reason, I just can't. We're together but not close at all. Then, just like many of these sordid adventures, it just stops.


To be replaced by the most disturbing one of all.


I'm being released. I know that because, I have to assume, someone told me that and I believed them. But, for whatever reason, I'm placed in this room to await my discharge. I'm sitting on this two-person chair just waiting. People are coming in and out but I'm barely paying attention to them. There's a discharge nurse who never seems to stop talking. And, because it's cheaper than day care, her daughter is lounging around the room. I thought that wasn't the best atmosphere for a kid, what with all these crazy and sick people being wheeled through, but what do I know? I'm crazy.


From behind a curtain orange robed Buddhists get my attention. I keep telling them to come in and say hi but they won't. Sometime later another group of religious zealots join them and they work hard at being louder and more aggressive than the Buddhists. I don't know if they were moved or visiting hours from behind the curtain were over but, at once, they all began to leave. But then some of the zealots came back and tried to put some candy on a shelf for me to pick up later. When they were leaving they knocked it all on the floor and in a pique of rage crush it all under their feet.


So much for live and let live.


I find out later that delusion was triggered because, leaning against the wall next to a curtain, was an orange spine board. To my altered head, why not a monk? My girlfriend said I should have said something and have it removed but I would have just thought that was rude to do to a monk.

Then, for the longest time, I moved around the room. Not like you, a normal person, moves around the room. I was lifted in my chair and for the longest time I'd watch my girlfriend talk to the people who came through. No one ever seemed to notice that I was hanging from the wall or, if they did, it was no big deal to them. But, let me tell you, I didn't like it one damn bit. It was like being on a roller coaster but with no seat belt or safety bar. Every list or twist and I was holding on for dear life.


The wait was never ending. Why is it taking so long to get me out of here? Other people are leaving. Is this the obverse of after the operation and they couldn't get me a bed? If they take forever in the beginning they take forever at the end.


I wanted out because the people passing through were freaking me out. There was nothing tangible I can explain, especially not like in some of the other episodes, but it seemed as if they all knew something I didn't.

And it wasn't good.


From time to time someone would join me near the ceiling on my seat. Most would only stay for a moment but they all seemed to want something from me or tell me about something. No one every stayed long enough to set me straight.


But when I found out I sure as hell wished check out went just a little bit quicker.


It started with a scent. It's a specific scent that sexual predators have. Maybe it's dirt and smoke and jizz. But it could be hatred and desire and the action of a corrupt soul. Either way, if you know exactly what I'm talking about, I'm sorry for what you endured.


But then it evolved into men by my side staring at me. I could tell they knew me as a child. I knew they were my old tormentors swooping in during a weakness in my life to try and destroy me just like they tried all those years ago.

At first, I didn't want to look at them. It wasn't out of fear. Fear died in me long ago. It was defiance. It was my chance to control the narrative. But they kept coming. Staring. Leering. My anger, my willfulness, my inability to back down got the better of me.


I looked at one of them.


His face was distorted. Angular. Sharp. A poorly rendered Picasso. All five o'clock shadow and furtive eyes. The moment my head turned to each of them they quickly looked away. And then they vanished. Where they once were, as real to me as you are, they were nothing but vapor. Mist. Haze.

Only to be replaced by another and another and another.


Growing tired and, frankly, angrier than I've been in some time, the chair moved me around the room. When I finally came to a still place I could feel the body beside me. Again, the smell then the moisture. Sweat. It was palpable. I looked around the room looking for someone to help me. By this time I was exhausted. I wanted help but if I wasn't going to get it, let's get this fucking show on the road.


I could feel him breathing next to me. He was talking to me but I couldn't understand a word he said. His clothes were thin and dirty. Like prison clothes. Maybe from the hospital. All I know is I was beginning to sweat. I was agitated. I knew, again, I had to be the one to take a stand. I had to be the one to send all of these molesters, rapists and pornographers away once and for all.

I had to be the man I was when I was a kid.


I took in a deep breath and quickly turned toward whoever this was. I moved quickly because I hoped if I did I'd find something familiar about him. Something I'd remember. But that was too much to hope for.


Their angular, weathered, gaunt faces faded into obscurity as quickly as they came. And they kept on coming. They kept on talking. They kept on being the predators they lived their lives as. Over the years I'd wondered how many other children they all changed. If they'd had the balls to hang around I would have asked them that question.


But they all took the cowards way out and just faded away.


Finally, my girlfriend was allowed to wheel me out of the hospital and begin a potentially difficult chapter in her life. I didn't envy her. I felt extreme guilt at being a burden. I wasn't the man she met all those years ago. He was, at this time, defeated.

And then she couldn't find the truck and I knew everything was going to be just fine.


Of course, at the time she was quite upset over the mishap but, for me, don't worry, baby, we'll find it. Which we did.

We went to a breakfast place we like as soon as we could. I was still not, let's just say, general population right at the time. I was a little talkative to people who weren't there. My speech wasn't King's English or even Klingon but I wasn't afraid to give it a go.

To the fright of the staff. But my girlfriend calmed them down with just a short eye roll and the international sign of circular moving finger near one's cranium to signify, "Not all right in the head."

I'd sit there and grasp at people walking by who were, find myself in conversation with people who I thought were in front of me but, to anyone else in the room, weren't. It had to be mortifying to everyone who witnessed it.


And I bet the next time we went and I was back to what is considered normal for me they were somewhat relieved. Mostly for my girlfriend but I'm sure we can all agree with that.


For the safety of everyone I was placed in a room that was cat and human free. I'd be sleeping here with no one for the foreseeable future. Along with the healing I was still (and still am) doing in my stomach region you probably don't want to be all that close to someone sleeping who is still in the throes of a psychotic episode.

The first night was fitful to say the least. I was up and roaming the house aimlessly pretty much every hour. My girlfriend would tell me to go back to bed and I would. Only to reappear again with the same story.


"There are five cats and two of them are dead. Puma and Russ then laid the dead kittens out on Buffington's paws as a sacrifice to me."


You know, the first time you hear that you might think it's gross or horrible or funny. But when you hear that, like a clock chime, every half hour or so I'm sure you can see where it would be quite annoying.


Another thing that happened that night is, every time I'd get up to update my girlfriend on the cat situation, two kids would appear, raggedy, furtive kids, at the top of the stairs. Not having 6 and 10 year old kids residing in the house this was also off-putting to me.


For the entire night cats, dead and alive, kids, alive and random gobbledygook that short circuited in my head would hit me and I'd have to wander the house looking for a cure.


Which was found the next night when I went to bed and slept for the next 24 hours without getting up. When I finally did I saw there were only three cats (like normal) and zero kids (like normal) and I could actually form full adult sentences.


This battle isn't over but, right now, things are going in the right direction. I'm still much thinner, sometimes I do find a hitch when finding the word I'm looking for and I'm pissed because I'm not out there shoveling. Or lifting or any of the things a working chump like myself is supposed to be doing.


Chapter Five

Because they had to open me up using the original incision it didn't heal well. Most of it closed except for one circle that looks like a second belly button. The incision went from looking like a Rembrandt to looking like a Pollock. I was bummed about that.


But I am now he only Zell in the world with two belly buttons. I may have lost my career as an ab model but a whole new world as a carnival freak has opened up.


Again, I know some people may like to see it while others will not so, if you choose to, the link is here.


It set me back over a month. After getting sleep I was okay. I didn't hallucinate or talk to invisible people (if you don't count my invisible friend, Otto). I've stayed moored in reality. there have been good days and not so good days. But the good far outweighs the bad.


We're still on schedule with the cancer doctor but Dr. G. signed off on me. You'd have to figure that. He's a surgeon and I'm not in need of one of those at the moment.


Thankfully.


Just before we parted ways we talked, briefly, about the amount of shit I expel. We're talking about it and I realize, compared to some other people he's operated on, I'm not doing too bad. But, just in case, he says he'd like to give me a prescription.


"Depending on your insurance, it may be a somewhat expensive drug."


"What's somewhat expensive?"


"Two thousand dollars."


"Guess who won't be getting that drug?"


After the discharge I had not one, not two but three different visiting nurses. One was awesome, one was a little pushy with the over the top medical suggestions (when we mentioned one thing she wanted done the nurse practitioner furrowed her brow and said, "Oh, her. Yes, we've dealt with her in the past.") and the third, well, let's just say she did her job.


Each time they each came in they had to do another assessment. Basically, that means they asked the same questions only to receive the answers that are right there in their notes. But, it's procedure.


The second nurse was responsible for my open wound. That means she had to look at it, see that it's still open and tell me not to stick fingers or food or batteries in there. And then she did the darnedest thing.


She had to measure the wound to see how deep it was and how deep the tunnel was. I'm lying there figuring, just like everything else medical, there would be a special tool for that. Something called a holeascope or a measurenometer. You know, something vaguely horrifying sounding and medical.


But, as I come to find out, they do not.


The nurse is standing above me with a cotton swab on a long stick. She turns the swab around to the part, in my experience, not generally used and she sticks the long stick portion into my hole.


I guess the rules don't apply to her.


She jams that piece of wood around there for a spell (it wasn't pleasant), pulls it out and takes a good look at the blood collected on it. She jots down a number then gets another swab and uses the wrong end to probe into the tunnel part. Again, not pleasant. She remarks that it's an inch and a quarter deep and wide.


It was probably only an inch before she started poking all around there.


Then, finally, I'm done with them but, of course it's not simple. I have a PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line in my arm all the way to my heart. It's for medical stuff. At least that's how it was explained to me. We've scheduled with the first nurse to take it out. But she has a conflict so I sit around all day waiting for that to get resolved.

I asked my girlfriend, an RN herself (so just consider how much she loved having strange nurses in her house), who has taken out plenty of PICC lines in her day, why she doesn't just take it out. But it's all insurance and money and liability and all that jazz. I sit there for hours.


Finally, we're told a nurse is on her way. Oh, happy day. She finally arrives and my girlfriend let's her in. They're chatting at the door and I hear an accent. I deal with different accents all the time but I'm having trouble placing this one.

"Oh fuck." I say under my breath. "She's had a stroke."


I'm not saying she couldn't do the job but I am saying couldn't they have found a nurse to take out a tube near my heart who didn't just get back to work? I know she's capable but wouldn't it be wiser to start her off on something simple like taking a log to measure my hole?


But it all worked out. She tore the tube out of me with minimal pain and I was done with invasive procedures for the time being. Now it's just getting on the road to not dying. Oh please, don't roll your eyes. It's not recovery. My organs aren't going to regenerate. I'm just wandering down the path of not jumping into a deeper hole.

So, while I'm doing that, I'm working full time, eating everything in sight, and having the most normal life I can. It's the best I can do not to feel defeated. I do get irritated from time to time with the amount of people who have to ask me what the hell happened. But I know it's only normal. I sure as hell don't look like the same guy I did three months ago. I grin and play the chips as they fall.


From here I can only do the best I can. To enjoy my life, friends and all that goes with it.

Chapter Six

I woke up one day and was feeling good. The best I'd felt in awhile. Not 100%, let's put a refrigerator in a truck by myself (or at all in case any medical professionals or my girlfriend read this) but I was feeling pretty good. The wound was probably as healed as it was going to get (but you can be the judge by clicking here to compare) so what do we have to do the next day?


Start cancer treatments.


There goes all the weight I've worked so hard to put back on.

I met Dr. P before the original operation. Awesome guy, great demeanor. It was just a meet and greet so it was very informal. He really didn't know what to say because he didn't know what we were up against.

While I'm sitting on the table at the end of our meeting I say, "Hey doc, you know this was a meet and greet so I hope you know I'm not leaving until I get my handshake and an autographed 8x10."


Everyone laughed and he said, "With an attitude like that you'll do just fine."


We'll see.

I know there were three lymph nodes out of eight that were cancerous. I also know they took those suckers out when they removed half my pancreas. Does that makes a difference? I don't know. I guess we'll all find out together.

The first thing they do when I get to the appointment is weigh me. In the three months since the second operation I've gained twenty pounds. I step off the scale and say,


"I wonder how much time it'll take them to take that away?"

How come people avert their eyes so many times when I ask questions?


I'm told there are two options:


Option One: Chemo.


Option Two: Aggressive Chemo.


I think the only difference is, with aggressive chemo, they punch the drug into you.


Before that takes place I'll have a CAT scan and a port put in (this is the one they used for me). The port is so they don't have to stick me every time they need to take something out or put something into my body.


The port was first and it went fine. I was awake while they cut open my chest and stuck in the port. At times it felt as if the doctor was trying to put a cat in a sock. And I was the sock. There wasn't any pain but there she was a lot of back and forth action going on. I couldn't see anything because they blocked the area but I've watched someone operate on my hand in real time so got that desire out of my system.

The next day was the CAT scan. It was eerily quite at the hospital at 7:30 AM. People were still wiping the sleep out of their eyes when we showed up. The scan itself was the easiest one I've had. A few trips into the tube and I was good to go.


Then wait another four days to see what these last two days are going to bring me. I'm guessing somewhere between good bad news to bad bad news. After the trip I've been on that's the best I can muster up at the current time.

After one more appointment we’d be ready to get this show on the road. I got the temperature of the room real fast when the doc said something about taking care of my blah blah blah (sorry, but they’ve been saying the same thing for so long I barely listen. I know, I have to get beat up again and do my best to blah blah blah. Well, I’m sure they have to do their job better than me so let’s get to it) so I said, “Does that mean I have to pull out of my undercard bout in June? It is a good payday.” and everyone’s eyes got wide.


Come on! I have a port in my shoulder. My opponent would feast on that! It’s not as if they haven’t met me. But, it’s a no joke zone.


I guess when I go into cancer room for the first time I shouldn’t be playing:


Because we had time and with no restaurants open because of the pandemic (yes, let’s just stop for a second to say, “Great time to be fucking with your immune system, Zell. Good work, assface.”) we stopped by the local medical pot shop. HOLY FUCK! You would have thought we were at the epicenter of the movie Outbreak. A woman rang the bell and this guy came out frantic like:



“You couldn’t have come at a worse time.” Then he started babbling to the woman that they’re only taking online orders blah blah blah. Pretty much I didn’t care. I just wanted to talk to someone.


When it was our turn he started out in the same freak out then started to brusquely dismiss us but went back in (his movements reminded me of a whack-a-mole game) and pretty much gave us what we wanted, a list of docs who will prescribe.

We’re looking at the brochures he gave us as people kept pulling in and going to the door. Each time I said, “Put up a damn sign so you don’t get interrupted from cleaning every twenty seconds.”


Proving to me that pot does affect the thought process.


I went through the list looking at the one in my city. Odd, the web site was down. I dug a little deeper and found a page that said, "*** Medical Consulting and *** are no longer seeing patients at this time and the offices are closed at this point. Dr. A** is planning on reopening in the future as he is away on a Sabbatical with our Federal Government. . ."

I guess that's a white collar crime way of saying going to club fed.


I can't say it gave me any faith in the industry. I searched a little further and found he got busted for securities fraud. Insider trading on information his wife, who works in the pharmaceutical industry, had. Undaunted, I started contacting listed doctors around my city. Wouldn't you know, not one of them got back in touch with me. I really am having my doubts.

The treatment begins in a few days. They'll attach a box to the port (here is what the port area looks like five days after installation) and I'll carry that around for a couple of days. Then I go in to get it removed for twelve days then do it all over again.


Eleven more times.

At least that’s what I think.


As this is being explained to me as I'm thinking, "This is the fast track? What's the slow track? Every month until you die?

The day gets here and a feeling I hadn’t had in years covers me. At first I can’t place it. It’s been so long. But then I realize what it is and chuckle.

The last time I had this exact feeling was when I was on the tennis tour heading off to play a match. The area around me was filled with people but I didn’t see any of them. People were talking but, even the ones who were talking directly to me, didn’t register. I was focused on the task at hand and nothing else mattered.

It’s an all inclusive feeling. I can feel myself moving, I can hear the muffled directions I’m being given but none of it is really sinking in. I’d follow the figure in front of me but everything else was a blur. Noise was a muffed roar, movement of anything but me didn’t exist, I never saw anyone’s face. I vaguely remember nodding or grunting, maybe uttering a real word, but it was out of rote. Polite responses out of reflex.

I had a job to do so put myself in a place to do it to the best in my ability.


Today was the exact same. My girlfriend kept up her guidance, support and directions but, other than nods and grunts, none of it sank in. I just followed the person I was supposed to who would get me where the work was to be done.

I remember getting into the truck while she kept up her pep talk. I remember closing the truck door and sitting there in silence for a period of time. Then I heard the first clear extraneous sound for quite some time. It came from the radio and it made me laugh. It was as if I’d walked from a seclusion tank into the roar of the world when these words slipped into my ears,


”I am Iron Man.”

I smiled while nodding my head as my girlfriend entered the truck as we started the first, to me, conversation of the day.

Today I was going to be hooked up to chemo through my port for eight hours.


Wait, what?


Yes, someone omitted the fact that, before two days of at home chemo, I’d have to sit here every Monday for a bunch of hours getting more chemo before a container of chemo in the shape of a grenade is attached for two more days.

That sounds even more gruesome writing it than it did to hear about it.


As I’m being hooked up and the Divine Ms. M explains what’s going to be happening to me I’m thinking,


“Eleven more times. Twenty-three more weeks.” Seems daunting but then I remember,


“I am Iron Man.”


I chuckle to myself watching the amber poison drain into my vein.

I’m not going to bore you with me sitting there for eight hours the first day or the subsequent six hours eleven more times. I’m not going to give you a laundry list of good and bad days. I’m not even going to harp on the mind numbing tedium of sitting there. It’s not your journey.

All I am going to say is I’m in it and there’s no backing out.

There hasn’t been anything in my life I haven’t had to work hard for so why shouldn’t working hard for life itself get its turn?


There are a couple of things I’d like to ask of you, if you’d please. I’m saying this knowing, if it happens, you only have the best intentions in mind. But, if you see me or contact me in any way, don’t tell me I’m brave. This is not bravery. Bravery is having a choice but taking the difficult road because you know it’s for the best of everyone.

And never call me a cancer survivor.

I’ve been around this world since I was a kid. If I get through this all it means is I’ve won the first set. In a best of five set match. And I know my opponent and it’s impeccable winning record.

So I’m just up a set with a long way to go. I feel good. I know what I have to do to win. The team has worked on a viable game plan.


But, in the end, it’s a match my opponent inevitably wins.









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