I recently penned a rant against libertarianism wherein I shared a personal and horrifying event.
My son, who is most times very soft spoken, read that and turned to me and almost shouted, "You almost died, dad! And this is the shit you write?"
Hell, I must confess that the specter of writing about that experience scares the fuck out of me. Mostly because I'm still in this place of denial. But there's a superstitious part of me that thinks that writing about it will cause another episode like it.
That's what I do, though, through my writing. I'm not the world's most eloquent or delightful writer. I think maybe that's because I write for myself, rather than the reader. I write to express my fears.
That way it's like leaving trash at the curb. Once you've unloaded it, off it goes, a load off your shoulders.
So...here goes:
The love of my life, my granddaughter Julia--about a year and a half old now--had been sick. So my oldest son and his wife couldn't make it for dinner that Sunday. Just as well. I was supposed to make dinner. I wasn't feeling well. My breathing had been bad all day. I have COPD from years of smoking (now almost six years clean) and have my bad days.
That's all it was, of course.
Or so I thought.
"A bad chest cold," my doctor told me once, "and you could wind up in the ER. A bad case of the flu...and you might be visiting the Big Guy."
My family Doc, Doctor Armisen says that a lot. He doesn't want to sugar coat things, but he stops short of deliberately putting things in the most clinical, base terms. I think I love him for that.
In any case, I was in no shape to cook that day. Greg (my son's partner--he's his husband, as far as I'm concerned and fuck the goddamn bigots) came home from working a double shift (both he and my oldest are home care workers) and noticed I wasn't breathing so well.
"Did you tell Jake?" (my other son)
I shook my head. "I think I'll be alright if I just rest a while. Can you make us some supper?"
"Sure."
So Greg and Jake coordinate on dinner and make me some chicken fettucini pasta. I eat, although I can feeling myself getting worse. If you aren't familiar with this disease, know this:
1. No cure.
2. Degenerative.
3. There's often little difference between being sick with bronchitis of a bacterial nature, and just having a bad day.
Later that night, I had a glass of wine, thinking that would help the cough. It didn't. So I went into the bathroom, taking my portable oxygen with me. I have the tanks around for bad days, but I rarely use them.
I brushed my teeth, told my son goodnight, and laid in my recliner and watched television until I noticed that with every breath it seemed like there was more and more "gunk" in my chest. Suddenly, it was blocking my airways, and I tried to cough. But coughing takes breath, and so I was caught between gasping for air to live, and trying to get a deep enough breath to cough this crap out.
The last thing I remember is calling my son's name, weak as it must have been. He came and called Greg. My son stayed with me, while Greg called the EMS.
I remember my son telling me I was going to be alright, but I could feel the world washing away, the colors drain out of things.
Some people say, "my life flashed before my eyes," before they have a near-death experience. This was true, at least in my case. In the fading of my mind's eye I saw my ex-wife as we were at our old apartment, dancing to Al Green and drinking warmish beer and talking about our future. I saw my sons being born. I saw my wife die once more of cancer. I saw my sons graduate college. I saw them take lovers and marry their fortunes together, as Paul Simon once said.
And I saw my Julia. So perfect. Not two years old and perfect. Her little hands wrapping around my fingers. The first time I saw her smile. The first time I held her.
The last thing I thought of before I lost consciousness was anger. And one screaming cry:
NO!
Jake told me that the doctor at the ER immediately put me on a respirator. For more than two days I laid in that bed. Nurses patiently turned me. Refilled my IVs of sodium and antibiotics and sleepy-meds.
I remember nothing of this time.
Jake told me that the doctor explained that I was strong enough to get off the respirator, but that it was good to have family there when I awoke, so as to limit shock and anxiety.
God this is hard to write....
So when I first opened my eyes, the first face I saw was hers. Julia. She was smiling. God help me, she was smiling, and I knew her, but was too drug-addled to speak her name.
They tell me I smiled back.
The first thing that was said that I fully remember was Greg. He said, "Goddamn you dad, you gave us the scare of a lifetime."
I smiled. "You? I think I shit myself."
I stayed another week in the hospital, getting stronger. Looking at photos of Julia. Thinking of what I almost lost. They let me see her, but I was too weak to hold her just then.
So I read Kos. I laughed at the good stuff that I was beyond happy to laugh at. Got righteously pissed at some Republicans.
Looked at more photos of Julia.
Had great conversations with old friends that had come to visit. Union guys from the old days at National Linen.
Had great conversations with my sons, and their lovers.
And married my fortune with one thought.
You don't take Rick fucking Smith out that easy.
I'm here.
So get used to it.
I'll be back on my walking routine soon. With my buddy Angus the dog.
I've been watching Julia again during the day.
And I'll be back cooking part time in no time.
So nobody's getting rid of me that easy.
I got too much to live for.
I got too much I'd die for.
Thanks guys, for lifting my spirits even when you didn't know you were doing it.
Thanks Kos, for this blog.
All hail to the Great. Orange. Satan!