You ought not to write about manly fears or saying what you mean because whatever you share can and will be held against you.
Cue the music and start singing the song that makes your heart smile and maybe never comes the day or maybe it does.
A convergence of age, genetics and recent experiences knocked me for a loop this morning. I am lying in a hospital bed, clothed in only a gown that barely fits and an IV in my right hand.
“Mr. Wilner, this should be really easy. Is the blanket warm enough? Are you comfortable? Hang on a moment, you must work out, we need a bigger blood pressure cuff for you. The anesthesiologist will be here in a moment and you can ask him any questions you might have.”
The Shadow Across My Heart
It is not a great picture but it is forever imprinted upon my memory because I took it the day I got the call that my father wasn’t supposed to make it through the night.
That was the night a 2.5 hour plane ride took an eternity and the same evening that another passenger told me he didn’t care if my dad was dying, he wasn’t going to get out the way.
Not that his words mattered because I forced my way by him and made the 45 mile run to the hospital where I took the picture of dad’s hand and mine.
It signified I had made it back to LA in time and serves as one of the final pieces of the genetic gifts he gave me.
Those age spots, the bruise and bloating weren’t always there to provide a distinction between our hands.
Though it is clear who is who there, there were a few decades where our hands would have been indistinguishable in a picture.
****
Back in the present I looked at my hands and felt like I was having an out of body experience. Instead of me standing by my father’s side I was lying in a hospital bed and I didn’t like it.
I knew it wasn’t logical or rational thought flowing through my head, but I heard music and thought it was worth telling the fine folks that if it was possible to get things moving sooner I was game for it.
“Does anyone know where the love of God goes, When the waves turn the minutes to hours?”
The anesthesiologist introduces himself and asks if I have any questions.
“I think the prep cleaned me out pretty good, but I am having a bit of a spasm now so I can either make a last run to the john or if the knock out is quickly I’ll take my nap now.”
“It is probably just a spasm, so if you can hang on a moment I’ll give you some oxygen and get things started. Remember, I might give you something to bite down upon to keep your mouth open but we won’t need to intubate you.”
“Sounds good. Let me know if I share any good secrets or tell any funny jokes.”
“I like good jokes and I can keep a…”
I assume he said secret but I slipped away into whatever place we go so I know nothing more.
Earlier in the morning I had set my intention to explore the veil between worlds. I knew it sounded goofy and new agey but figured it couldn’t hurt to try.
If such a thing exists I would take a moment to try and solve some riddles and resolve some questions.
“Off to see if I can find dad, friends and relatives and maybe talk soul-to-soul with those who have been unwilling to answer other questions.”
I am told when I came to in recovery I asked multiple questions, repeated myself and was kind of silly.
That is not exactly how I remember it, but I do remember being surprised by walking being a hair more difficult than I expected.
And many hours later I remember “queens don’t read” but I haven’t the foggiest idea of the reference for it.
Can’t say if I heard or dreamed about it, so it stands alone as a question that may never be answered.
Now I sit here on a Saturday night listening to music and telling my mom and sisters that the doc said things looked ok and that he did remove some polyps.
I am not bothered or concerned by that part, but it feels surreal to hear me say it because I am not really old enough for this discussion.
Tired Of Doctors
I have seen more doctors recently than I ever want to and I am tired of them.
Tired of being poked and prodded and told that I ought to do this or that but I am not ignoring what I heard.
Got PTSD from the whole experience with dad which is why I am trying to find out exactly where things are at so I can make some adjustments and changes in lifestyle so that I can try to avoid the things that tripped him up.
It is not easy to do some of this because those lifestyle changes according to some are pretty profound and I see no reason to go so hard the other direction.
There has to be a way to make some changes that provide significant health benefits that don’t involve sucking the joy out of life.
And there are moments where I wonder if any of it matters because somethings are written in our genetic code.
DNA holds many of the keys to whether these changes will yield results or if the medical monsters I try to fight off are going to come for me regardless.
I am confident I’ll live at least as long as my father and very optimistic I’ll significantly outlive him.
But there is a part of me that says what if?
What if I am going to live roughly the same amount of time as he did and I am down to my last 25 years.
If there is only enough sand left for 25 more years how will I spend that time, who will I spend it with and how will it all play out?
I may not have complete control over every detail that accompanies the very broad brush I painted with but I do have quite a bit.
What happens if queens don’t read or they do and is it connected to any of this?
Hell if I know, but maybe one day I will find out.
In the interim I am waiting for the next test so that I can figure out what other steps come along with the prior.
Hope I sleep as well tonight as I during the procedure today ‘cuz that was one hell of a nap.
