Miscellaneous Comfort

Early October, 2002

They were long forgotten ink drawings. I found them a few days ago after I moved into my new place. They were stuffed into the many small boxes marked as Miscellaneous. I threw most of my past into those boxes in the last hurried hours of moving out of the old house. I wanted out and knowing what I had really didn't matter to me. I would soon be free of 21 years of a misbegotten marriage. I knew I would be myself again once I closed that door behind me.

I finished loading the boxes into the back of my truck and walked to the backyard for the final time. Through tearful eyes, I swung my open hand through the grass and touched the swing set. The memories became very strong, so I sat awhile.

I walked inside and looked around each of the rooms. The new owners would be moving in later that afternoon. It would be their house. They would bring a new life into it and make it a home. I touched the walls and closed closet doors for the last time. Good luck to them.

The house and the marriage had been well-kept mausoleums. There was no love between us for the last thirteen years of marriage. We kept together for the kids and the princely sums of money. Towards the end, it was more the latter than the former.

I kissed the front door and said goodbye to my old life.

I was spending the morning looking at my past. The morning sun warmed my face as I sat on the carpet in the smaller front bedroom of my new house. I smiled as I remembered the moments from each photo.

I went to the closet for another cardboard moving box and found something from many years ago. I forgot I had them.

They were small ink drawings of oyster boats at rest. I carefully laid them side-by-side on the carpet, sat down next to them and cried. They were the past that I had buried, along with myself, so I could survive the marriage. Just to f**king survive. By remembering the water and my people, I did both.

Two of the oyster boats were working boats and had many years left in their hulls. The other two boats were in disrepair - their keels resting on the sandy bottom. It felt good to see them. I was home again. I remembered the tides and the pull of the water.

I was a young boy again fishing on Red's pier. An old man with a week-old white beard was fishing nearby. It was old man Red. He patiently listened as I stuttered-out my question,"Why were some working boats anchored close to shore and forgotten?"

"Maybe the family just quit.. or the business gave out.. or maybe his heart gave out. Best to leave it be and give back to the sea what she always wanted. Just wait. The tides will take it soon enough. They always do."

His words gave me comfort - a boy listening to an old man as he talked about wisdom and lies on a short pier in a shallow creek... somewhere back over there.

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Patience Will Grant Me My Freedom

March 3, 2003

I'll be in my bucket through May or possibly through the summer. The chronic pain is not intense as it was in the past, but it fatigues me, as do my required exercises and the daily use of my wheelchair. This places caution in my thoughts as I make plans to walk again.

I wrote the following early this morning - around 3 am. I'm reading it while I drink my last cup of coffee. It's my affirmation of life.

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I Hate The Pain

I hate the pain and what it does to my life and my love.

I hate how I can't stop it from hurting me, even when I do its bidding.

I hate how it awakens me every morning to cry and promises the same for tomorrow.

I hate how I become a timeless blur as the world and my children swirl around me.

I hate how I have to disappear into the pain, so I can survive.

I hate it and I disappeared into its maelstrom last Friday.

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It owns me - my hopes, my dreams, my love and my life.

It shrinks me to the size of a small boy's handful of hope.

It says I can stay here forever with little pain, if I don't move...

If I stay very still...

If I give in.

It's my life, my pain, my decision and my pact with the devil.

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I will sleep in the bowels of this f**king beast and daily measure my strength against its own.

I will ride with it across my broad, cloudless skies as it colors my days.

I will succumb to its painful, contorting spasms as my body heals.

I will remember nothing as it robs me of my remaining memories.

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I will wait for its end, because patience will grant me my freedom.

I will endure, because I can.

I will awaken and embrace the world, because I have a life and love to share with others.

I will start my life again.

I always will.

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4/16/03

The chronic pain might win this time. I remember walking for six months last year, but my condition is getting worse. I've resigned myself to a life in the wheelchair. It's not much of a life, but I'm living.

The pain medication allows me to work, but the pain keeps me in the house after work. I'm deteriorating to the point of considering the doc's offer of a morphine drip in a convalescent home. I know if I go in, I'll disappear into a pain-free cloud and never wanna come back.

But I never will come back. I'll die in there. My doc only gives me two more years to live. My body is starting to shut down because of the pain. My heart is starting to go. Either way, I'm investigating some convalescent homes in the nearby neighborhoods.

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5/6/03

The doc sez he can operate, but the outcome is iffy. It's the same offer from 2002, 2001 and the original Mayo Clinic offer in 1995. Nothing has changed from his perspective. I have to change mine.

There's a 30% chance of reducing the pain. There's a 30% chance of dramatically increasing the pain. The remaining 40% is no change at all, but I'll have six months of even worse chronic pain as my foot heals.

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6/20/03

Last night in my dreams, I was running again along the ridge of South Mountain. It was wintertime and I was completing my favorite 36-mile trail run. It was a good run.

I have nothing to lose. If the surgery is a success, I'll walk again. If it's a failure, I'm still in the wheelchair. I'll ride it for as long as I can.

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9/20/03

The foot surgery last month appears to be a success. My doc is optimistic. He's a Texas orthopedist with a friendly, blunt manner. I appreciate his honesty.

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8/2/04

It's almost been a year since my successful surgery. I started walking AGAIN, albeit very, very slowly, in October 2003. The pain is greatly diminished and made tolerable, somewhat, with OTC acetaminophen. I pretend the pain doesn't exist and acetaminophen pretends to work (grin).

I'm officially a gimp. I limp with my right foot, which worsens by late afternoon. (Frankly, so does the pain.) I know people stare at me when I walk. Heck, I'd be curious too. They were curious about me being in a wheelchair. I'm used to it... not really.

I haven't donated my wheelchair yet. I see it every day in my walk-in closet. It's a reminder of those days when I rode with it, except now I color my own days.

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