I tried to get everything done before I went into surgery. As though all of those things really would matter. Not really. Nothing that I do is crucial, clutch cargo happening. I suppose that's what curbed, seriously curbed my enthusiasm about doing any of my work. I couldn't really pull it off the couple of days beforehand. It started to show. Jesus, I would be a shitty actor.
But, I had to have something that distracted me from the heart that I was suddenly aware of pounding in my chest every single fucking moment. All those chances that I don't take. Every single day I am handed so many, and I never just take them. Can you imagine what would happen if we all just took the chances that were freely given to us by the fucking universe....can you fucking imagine that?!? Well, I can, and they called to me, and everyone one of them that I didn't take advantage of seemed to flash before me, they seemed to partially slip though my finger tips, but I felt them, I felt how wonderful they were each supposed to be....all of everyone of those sayings, those sayings repeated with every enlarged heartbeat. Would this be the time that those chances ran out? I've been given more than my fair share, right? The universe is going to call in it's marker sometime. Why not now? Yeah, that's what I thought.
I was alone when I went into surgery. Part of me wanted people that I knew there with me, everyone else in the waiting room had someone. An old lady asked if they could borrow my cell phone. The old man had remembered everything, but forgot the cell phone. His name was Roger. I let the woman make the calls. She told everyone where she was, when she was supposed to be out. And she told everyone that Roger had forgotten the cell phone. We're all quite the same, the same words, the same actions. I had to be there at six o'clock in the morning. I'm sure that I forgot a lot of things. Roger didn't seem to mind that everyone knew that he forgot the phone. He knew she was scared. They gave the phone back to me, and Roger took the woman's hand and let her know that he would be there all day waiting for her to wake up. For a second, I wanted that, too. Someone holding my hand. But, I knew that it was just a load of crap. When I went under, and had the actual surgery, and the machines breathing for me, and the knife cutting me, and the waking up....I would be alone. It's just what it is. It's being alone. And it's scary. And no Roger equal would help her or me through that. It just is what it is.
I kept waiting for the caring or maybe the ceremony to start. But having surgery is really just like going through the drive thru. I'm not just typing that, it really is. A lot of formality, a lot of organization, and lot of impersonal caring, and bright lights with bright smells. Some people complain about that. I'm not so sure that I want to complain about that. The fact that they're impersonal made me rely on myself. I didn't want them wrapped up in any emotional state. I wanted them focused. I wanted them precise. I didn't need for them to like me, or to fucking care about me, I needed them to do their fucking job, and do it right. I needed that. I wanted them to please do their fucking job right. And I just needed the I don't care drugs to get myself started. When it was over I had been moved. Just like that, without even knowing, just moved. Yes, they did their fucking job.
People came by. I got some gifts. That was all the ceremony. I really liked it, but it also made me tired. In the end, it really is your body and your mind and your soul, and you just have to take care of most of it yourself. Of course, I could have put down the guard, and ask for the help that I needed taking a bath. Instead I just made a mess, got pissed off, and pretty sure that I broke something I wouldn't want broken if I was sober. But, I'll worry about that tomorrow.
I was in quickly and out quickly. Someone had to clean up my blood and piss when I pulled out my IV, and missed the toilet a bit. Can you believe that kind of job? The girl seemed okay with it. It's a big deal doing that kind of work...being able to go into someones intimate space like that, and not make it a big deal. I gave her all the chocolates out of my fruit basket, and told her not to share them.
I have some pain. But I have more relief right now. I'm on the drugs right now, and the pain isn't so bad. But, just now, when I thought to write my feelings down. Everything is quite here now. I can think. I have some water, I'm fairly clean, I can smoke, and take the pills, and yes, I might have a glass of wine, as well. How immoral and devilish that seems. But, I made need to curb the feelings a bit, and being messed up it the poor man's way. And I am not a rich man.
If I were to say it out loud, I was scared. I'm not ready to die. But, most times, I'm not terribly ready to live either. I don't take the advantages. I do and act as I'm supposed to mostly for my paycheck. How sad that makes me today. I could have coded on the table. Someone could have nicked an artery. I could have gotten an infection. Every heartbeat....all that blood circling around in my body. All the cells trying to repair. How soon before they just give up on me.
Jesus, it's scary to trust in people that they'll do the right thing by you, especially when you don't do it by yourself.
And the sight of my son, I got home. He was in such a bad mood because of his day at school. I loved his bad day more than anything in our entire universe. The smell of my dirty house. My man's forgetful way of remembering that I'm not that tough. The sight of my dogs. My car has a flat tire. I will go to work on Monday. I will be able to walk better. I can cry because I really am safe. I really did make it.
Jesus.
I have at least one more chance.
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