9 1/2 Weeks

Today, I rode my bicycle. First time in almost 9 1/2 weeks. No, this post has absolutely NOTHING to do with a movie about sex and eating jalapenos blindfolded in lingerie. It’s just the first movie reference that popped into my head when I looked in my journal for the last date I rode my bike. Monday, September 14th. A grocery run to Trader Joe’s. 64 days ago. My bike chain jumped the gears on the way home with 30 pounds of groceries in the pack on my back. The chain wedged itself between the gears and the bike frame, and it took me about 20 minutes to cautiously work it free, reset it, and slowly ride it home using only the one gear I got it to loop back into. 21st gear. The top gear. Up hill the last 2 miles home.

It was my last ride. The pains and symptoms that had become a part of my recent life with kidney cancer were becoming more than I felt like riding to the store with. In fact, by that night, I started to notice an increasing pain in my lower abdomen that, by the next night, made me decide that a trip to Urgent Care was a good idea. Because in my mind, after my catheter and camera bladder exam the Friday before, I thought this new pain might be a bladder infection. And at this point in my Summer of Cancer adventure, NOTHING was going to stop me from having the surgery scheduled for October 6th, to get my cancer-coated kidney out of me.

As I’ve mentioned to a few folks since, that pain I was feeling turned out to be a little bonus affliction called diverticulitis. You fans of WebMD can play with that one at your earliest convenience. A couple more trips to the doctor and two prescriptions of antibiotics later and the surgery happened right on schedule.

Anyway, that’s all just backstory now. Same with why I would ride to buy groceries and run other local errands. It’s all just history now, and probably more filler for another post I’ll write before the end of the month.

The important thing about this day was, I rode my bicycle. For the first time in almost 9 1/2 weeks, I rode. Six weeks to the day after surgery. Just like the doctors said not to do. Not to fuck up the healing I can’t see on my insides, while the scars I can see on my outsides do the same.

Today, I rode my bicycle. It felt good. The day felt good. Writing this felt good.

(c) copyright 2020 William S. Friday

Flatliners

Disclaimer: To the best of my waking knowledge, on October 6th, 2020, I did NOT experience an NDE (Near Death Experience). I am, however, a writer. And as such, I possess a vivid imagination. Also, who the fuck knows what happens to the subconscious mind under the influence of Propofol.

I made friends with my pre-op nurse from the moment she parted the modesty drape, separating my bed on wheels from the growing numbers of first-shift hospital workers. I was glad I did, because it was she who overruled my anesthesiologist when it came to tapping a vein in me for the IV drip to dreamland. Hell, my anesthesiologist couldn’t find a roll of adhesive tape in the cart drawer. It was good my nurse stuck me before the sleep doctor had a chance, and I hoped that anesthesiology proper, and converting deciliter to milliliter ratios, was more her thing than a simple needle stick.

It was now 7 am. I was scheduled for surgery at 7:30, but a second doctor I also didn’t know told me it looked like we were all ahead of schedule. My face must have had a look, because it was then my pre-op nurse said she would be accompanying to the OR. That made me feel better, somehow, and told doctor number two that being early actually sounded great to me.

Until it didn’t.

Inside my head, it is a very logical place. Well-ordered. You might even call it regimented. I tell myself I keep it that way to allow more freedom along my internal bandwidth for creative things like poetry, or memorizing the script to Scott Pilgrim vs the World. Unfortunately, now was NOT the right time for my creative nether to have nothing but free space for my imagination to roam. Unconsciously, I knew my body was flashing back to the last time I was on a bed with wheels. To the second CT scan, the first time I was scared, when it confirmed what the ER doc already told me.

I had cancer.

Somewhere between the anesthesiologist and the incident with the lost adhesive tape, and the moment when I was being wheeled past what seemed like dozens of scrub-wearing, mask-bearing staff, a second anesthesiologist from who knows where appeared… and at that moment I wanted to say that anesthesiology must be a growth industry or something… to let me know he was going to be taking over the drugs, and that he was also going to be putting a “little something” in my IV drip before they took me to surgery.

This is where the details start to get fuzzy, and I remember having this image of Julia Roberts and Kiefer Sutherland in a movie from 30 years ago, about med students and… well, you read the bold italics, above.

I remember asking him if this was the part where I count backward from a hundred, and don’t make it past 97. I remember him telling me that the “little something” was only to relax me before… I don’t remember what. I caught sight of my pre-op nurse next to me, helping push me through the halls, and for a few seconds, I felt better. I remember how loud the hallway was. The masked folk talking amongst themselves, almost faceless, and realizing that it really didn’t matter if I remembered their faces, because I wouldn’t remember them anyway. I remember my pre-op nurse, although I couldn’t remember her name. I really wished I could remember her name.

Then my destination . The OR. And I remember how bright, God how bright, it was. I saw the operating table with the lights above it and wondered how I was supposed to get to the table from the bed with wheels. I looked around the theater at all the new masked faces I would not remember, doing not much yet. Waiting for, what… me? I remember my surgeon, who I had met the Friday before this Tuesday, reintroduce himself to me as all the bed pushers parallel parked my bed with wheels next to the operating table. I remember four or five masked and gowned folks, none of whom looked big enough or strong enough to transfer me from the bed to the table, all grab an edge of the sheet beneath my gowned body, and on a sloppy count of three, awkward lift me from one flat surface to the other.

I remember they took my gown, and I realized the “little something” must be working, because I didn’t give a shit who saw my dick or my balls. And I remember my, “Hey, I’ve only known you for a few days and shouldn’t you have to buy me dinner before you do this to me?” surgeon ask me nicely to scoot down a little bit so they could drop my arms into the full-length, slotted restraints, there to keep me from accidentally crossing my arms over my body while they had my belly carved open on the table.

I remember my Covid-precautionary surgical mask come off me, and then the gas mask tightly cover my nose and mouth. I remember how restrictive the arm-slot restraints were. How my shoulders started to feel slightly dislocated, and a growing thought that I was going to have to be like this… this Andres Serrano Christ on a Cross… for the next four hours, and my head finally caught up with my body, and for not the first time I was scared.

I remember the second anesthesiologist, the good one with the “little something”, say that I was going to fall asleep now. I looked up into the lights above the table, my table with the arm slots, and squinted. I remember thinking how bright, God how bright.

I remember… nothing.

(c) copyright 2020 William S. Friday