Burgundy

Stumbled my way back
To the Royal Saint Charles Hotel
Found out the fast way
Those hurricanes can feel like hell

We didn't know it then
Or maybe way deep down we did
Those free-of-care days of life
Were drawing to an end

Took shelter from the rain
In a dive down on Burgundy
Can't recall the barmaid's name
But I asked her to marry me

Kept on slidin’ tokens
In some casino on Canal
Until one more spin
Turned into 4 a.m. somehow

Gassed up in the morning
Daylight making my head scream
Quart of oil, halfway home
In that faded red, old four-speed

That crescent city left me
Broker than I’ve rarely been
But no one reminisces
On money they didn’t spend

Well they tore down the Charles
And tokens are obsolete
But I like to believe
Tonight down on Burgundy

There's a dive bar on a corner
With a drop-dead Delta queen
Serving shooters and smilin’ “maybe”
To a boy drunk as me

The year I almost died

A year ago today I was in the hospital.  It was day two of my three-day, three-night stay in a facility I gave 3 and a half stars to on TripAdvisor.  Service was outstanding, a solid 5.  Amenities were kinda lacking.  I mean, other than the medicines and equipment that likely saved my life.  So a 3.5.  Food and snacks?  I'd strongly recommend ordering in.

I had been home alone on Friday afternoon.  Mrs. Bone had taken the kids and gone to splitsville, er, Louisville.  (She came back... eventually.)  I was supposed to go but had been having stomach problems all week, and it had gotten worse.  

I figured I was badly dehydrated from my many toilet treks and was feeling weaker by the hour.  Mrs. Bone (and others) strongly suggested I should go to the walk-in clinic.  (The nearest hospital is 22 miles away, because you know, America!)

But, as has been rumored before, I am a man.  As a whole, our kind is not particularly fond of going to medical establishments.  Hospitals, doctors, dentists, proctologists... you get my drift.  We prefer to think we are mostly invincible.  Unless we have that plague known as the common cold.  Then?  We are at death's door.  Besides, if they don't check you for anything, they won't find anything, amirite?

So I was thinking I'd stay home and if it wasn't better by the morning, get up and go see someone then.

I really don't know what made me get up and go, other than Mrs. Bone's constant, um, encouragements.  There was a point, I think, when I realized I was feeling so weak I wasn't sure I could drive myself to the clinic.  And if it was that bad tonight, what if it got worse...

The clinic was not busy, thankfully.  I don't remember what they checked first.  I think my heart rate was 119.  And then I just remember hearing my blood pressure reading, and none of the numbers were triple digits.  Something like 92 over 52, maybe?  That kinda scared me.  I mean, normally I run hot... 135/95 range.  I'm a boiling kettle.  A ticking time bomb, some might say.

The early discussion was that the doctor could give me something for nausea, I could go home and hydrate and see if it was better by morning, or I could drive to the ER and they'd probably give me an IV.

Then my blood work came back.

There's a look doctors get when something is wrong.  Perhaps you've seen it, perhaps not.  But when you see it, you also immediately know something is wrong.

Now I could regale you with tales of astronomical white blood cell counts and bilirubin five times its normal level.  And who knows what happened to my lymphocytes???  But hopefully... (hopefully?), there'll be time for plenty of those as I amble through these golden years.  

I think I can sum up what was going on by slightly altering the lyrics to one of the great songs of all-time, the magnum opus, if you will, of Donald McLean III.  

Here goes.  

It appeared some of the organs I had admired the most -- my liver, kidneys, and lungs (the both?) -- had caught the last train for the coast.

I just remember the words, "You need to get to a hospital.  We are calling for an ambulance now."

I did talk them down to letting me go if I had someone who could pick me up.  Who wants to pay those exorbitant ambulance rates?  But I was not to drive there.  I thought about Ubering, but then I might get murdered.  Also, I don't have the app.  Mrs. Bone offered to turn around and come home, but I told her I was fine.  Besides, it wasn't like I had a cold or something.

So I signed some refusal of care document stating I had declined an ambulance ride (at just $900 per mile, I might add!).  Mrs. Bone got in touch with one of her friends to drive me to the hospital.  I was able to drive myself home from the clinic.  I mean, what were they gonna do?  I had signed the NDA.  DNR.  Whatever it was called.  They can't just keep me there!  This isn't Nazi Germany.... well... not yet anyway.

The ER also was not busy.  (Must not be a lot of common colds going around, I thought to myself.)  I was hooked up to an IV and put on oxygen.  Then after a couple of hours I was informed I would not be returning home that evening, and probably not for a few days.  

I was septic.  

Never been septic before.  I'd been allergic.  Rheumatic.  Arthritic.  I'd been called toxic by more than one female.  But never septic.  I didn't grasp the severity at first.

Then you hear phrases like, "Your organs are shutting down."  It starts to sink in pretty fast after that.  Like really organs?  How about a heads up next time, guys?

I asked the doctor, "How serious is this?"  Her response: "Let's just say it's a good thing you came in tonight."  

Yes.  Let's.

So I was admitted to a room, where I would spend the next three nights.  My mother and fave aunt had come to offer their support.  A mother should never have to see her son in this situation.

Anyhow, three different antibiotics and lots of fluid later, I was released.  Mrs. Bone made it back by Sunday.  She'll have to wait a little longer to collect on that $2,000 life insurance policy.

The good news?  I never had to have a catheter!  I will drink whatever you bring me, I told them.  Pedialyte.  Buttermilk.  Horse urine.  Whatever!

I was released on a Monday.  Out of work for a week.  But can we look at the big picture?

Still catheter free since '83!  

(Proceeds to do Cabbage Patch dance, pulls muscle in back.)

Brain storm

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Fevered nights I couldn't get any air
And fits of fright, I swear, I was certain I would die

I still feel the guilt
Of the damage I did do
And there's no reason, only excuse
Blame placed on me, I could never deny

The mood swings have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more ripples than volcanoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

I'm better now
But am I really my true self
I beat that question to a long slow death
Still no answer can I ascertain

I still feel ashamed
For being on prescribed drugs
Cried “I’m so sorry” to Heaven above
Too weak to handle the chemicals in my own brain

The fits of terror have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more breezes than tornadoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

No more mean reds, jealous greens
Or the feeling of doom over the smallest of things
The pills keep me from getting too low
But now and then I miss the highs

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Panicked nights spent fighting for air
And times, I swear, you could not convince me
I was not about
                         to
                             die

That first season

It is a Tuesday evening in February in this contented little town.  Inside a well-worn gymnasium, the Heat of the co-ed 6-and-under basketball league have fallen behind early, four to zero, in their final game of the season.

"Could be a long game," I remarked to Mrs. Bone.  After all, we had seen these types of starts before, such as in the devastating twenty-four to zero loss to the Bulls -- a team which, by the way, sported a couple of "6-year-olds" -- I use that description loosely -- who already at like four-foot-ten are probably destined for the NBA.  Or at least community college.

Then something remarkable happened.  You made a basket.  Later, a free throw.  Then early in the second period, another basket.  The Heat were ahead five to four.  And the gangly kid with the hair I used to have and the deep-set eyes I still do had scored all of his team's points.

The Heat would go on to win 15 to 11, finishing the season with a record of six wins and four losses, good for a tie for fourth place in the league.  But when I think about that first season, it's not the wins and losses I'll remember.

Instead, I'll think about how far you came. 

From the shy kid who I wasn't sure would ever want to play organized sports, to one who--even before we left the court after the game--was excitedly saying, "Momma, you have to sign me up again next year!"

From the kid who was reluctant to shoot and always looking to pass, whose first basket of the season was a long one from near the 3-point-line that took everyone by surprise--not just that it had gone in, but that you had shot the ball at all--to the one yelling, "I'm open!" and shooting at most every opportunity.

From the kid I was teaching in November you had to dribble and couldn't just run with the basketball, to the one who practiced out in the driveway almost every day, and by that last game was directing his teammates where they needed to be on defense.

But hey, you're not the only one who accomplished something this season. Your little sister successfully created the as of yet unchartered Bleacher Barbies Social Club, which by the end of the season had grown to a membership of 4 to 5 younger siblings playing with sundry Barbies in the stands, one hundred percent oblivious to anything going on on the basketball court.

And me?

Well, I had "progressed" from a dad who began the season saying I just wanted you to have fun and didn't understand all these parents who get so upset over children's sports, to one who was sitting in the stands during that final game, continually making the traveling gesture to the official.  An official, I might add, who was obviously was unfamiliar with that basic rule.

"They're six!" Mrs. Bone scolded.

Hearkening back to the 4-foot-10 goliaths we had succumbed to earlier in the season, I thought to myself, "...but are they?"