Conversations with the dead

How do you talk to the dead? How do you finish conversations that never happened? How do you find resolution when the person you desperately need to talk to is gone? How do you speak to both sides when all you have is your voice and no other?

These were my questions I asked myself in the shower. How do I have the unspoken conversations? I think the answer is to just begin. Let the conversation carry the words downstream and see where the are carried.

Part of me is scared that someone reading this would think that this conversation happened in real time in real space. In fact the conversations have only happened in my head, so far. I am curious to see what the conversations become as they leave the confines of my skull and grow wings. 

I am debating whether or not it would be prudent to record these conversations via audio or here. There are merits to both. I know that spoken word is quicker but it also requires some scripting to keep the erms and ahs and uhs to a minimum. I know I sure dont want to listen to that crap. I guess if the recording idea works, it could also pave the way for a written transcript that might be worth reading. We'll see if I speak like I write. 

Pushing Rewind on the Memory Playlist

 When I left for college, the backseat of my Mercury Marquis was filled nearly to to point of blocking the rear window. If I twisted just right, I could retrieve tapes throughout the day, ensuring that my drive was never limited by local FM stations. Instead I could revel in the freedom of the open road accompanied by the songs that had captivated me through my final years of high school. If I remember correctly, there were close to two hundred tapes in the backseat. I figured I would make it all the way to Massachusetts and never have to repeat a single tape. It didnt quite work out that way.

I found myself three days later, pulling into the parking lot of my college. A day early and no where to sleep. The dorms wouldn't open for another day, so I treated myself to another McDonalds dinner and retired early, pushing my pillow against the passenger side window. With the windows rolled down, I listened through the night to the slow sounds that I would come to know as the hourly bus drove through campus on its way into town. Other than a few passes by security, I was left to my own devices. For three days I had driven with my collection of tapes to keep me company. Now I felt like they failed me. The sound didnt fit the location. 

Early in the morning, before the sun had risen over the apple orchard, I heard the slam of a nearby car door. Parents dropping off their kids. Damn! That was early. Within the hour, I was hip deep in the moving-in process, anxious to have everything out of my car and into my narrow little room. It didn't take very many trips before everything was laid out and packed into my new life. I had brought a small tape deck radio boombox with me. In my head, I figured it was best to leave my big component stereo system at home in Florida, since there it would be safe. Picking out the first tape to play in my new room was critical... what would set the tone? Something raucous? Something soulful? Something playful? Straight up rock and roll? I kept opening the little drawers with all of my tapes and finding nothing that seemed the speak to the moment. 

At the end of the hall was a shared bathroom (of which I shall write another time).  From the door second from the bathroom entrance came the most fascinating song. 

In April when your barge sailed through

I fell in love with you

Alas my paramour alack
A stranger to me 'til the test comes back

Chorus:
Oh the micro-organism

Oh the micro-organism  

I was in love! I dont think I have ever rushed to finish peeing for a song before. I came out of the bathroom hoping to catch more of the song. 

The cowslips bloom and the bluebells too
Here's advice I'll give to you
Rattle your sword before you strike
And never kiss anyone you like

Oh my god! I laughed so hard! I had never heard anything like this. I knocked on my hallmate's door, desperate to find out who this could be. Matt turned out to be the kindest gentle soul from Minneapolis. By the end of the day he had copied this Boiled in Lead tape and included Rare Air on the other side. That tape started life part two. 

Answering the Call

 The phone rings. 

You pick up the call.

Answering: Hi, how are you? 

When the mind rings...

    What's that?

Who is it? When is it?

Oh, it's you. It's been so long. 

The call goes on and on

Over time and years missed.

    Birthdays that no one celebrated,

hearts broken and never fully mended.

Sad times, alone and afraid.

    Remembering being so close and so unsure. 

Neighbors walking straight down the street 

Looking up to see the streetlamps.

    

The line quiets.

    Checking in, yeah, I should probably go.

Just wanted to know you were okay. Oh, okay.

And then the silence. 

The heart breaking again knowing the distance is too far.

    The lament for not having called before. Being too busy.

Cruel calendars of years past only note the passing days

not the passing of memories. 

    All the days spent apart. There would be more days ahead, 

more calls to make. 

Blue Child, Red Anger, and the Badger

 Thankfully the titles I use on my blogposts are so esoteric that there is no chance anyone would ever search for them. I'm essentially un-searchable. This in turn, allows me to write with greater impunity.

A few weeks ago, my therapy session evolved into a discussion about loneliness and the body sensation of that alone-ness. We didnt have nearly enough time to delve into it, so we put it off for a few weeks. This past week we picked up right where we left off. (that seldom happens). So, let us begin with loneliness.

I described the loneliness as a cold child, bluish. Part of this somatic therapy is to describe the part of the body that associates with feelings or trauma. In this case, the blue child was felt in my thighs, in my quads. Like a sad tightness. Cold, and still. 

As we explored the feeling I started to recognize that the loneliness feeling itself wasn't as scary as it had felt in the past. I could feel a brisk breeze moving through the feeling memory. 

It was at that point the desire to control and change the feeling welled up. For the first time, I could see the red anger as a shape as well as a body part. The old-blood red bat shape filled my field of view, blocking the blue child completely from view. Immediately, I was swallowing back hot tears and feeling the shape echoing into my spine and my lower back. As we explored this red anger and control, I became aware that for as fierce as the feeling was, it was scarier than I expected. It was also adult. Old. The old that we are told we have to become. The grown-up that children are told we have to become in order to stop being the immature, child-like creatures we were. I knew the red-blood shape of control and anger like a mask of my own face. It fit. Wet, hot, stifling and blocking everything from view. I struggled to stay with this feeling. Everything about this made me want to run away.

Then, out of the upper field of my vision, there appeared a slender badger. Slowly pushing the red-blood shape down, the badger tried to let me know that I could push past this raw, angry, adult feeling. I could just go off with the badger and everything would be better. With guidance, I found myself reassuring the furry face of the badger that in fact, I was safe. I had help. I would be okay. I thanked him and reminded him that I saw him. I could join him another time. As I said this aloud, he curled up, just inside my field of view, and stuck his tongue out at me. I call him Distraction. Distraction needed to wait a little while.

I refocused my attention on the red-blood shape that kept pulsing against my vision. New distractions arose from the underside of my arms. Flapping up into frame, huge black ravens began pecking and tearing at the red bat shape. Burning and piercing through the leathery burgundy was confusing and scary. I felt more ravens coming from around my shoulders. Here to interrupt and stop this blood-red feeling that enveloped my vision. 

Again, I had to say aloud that I was safe. That I saw these beautiful black ravens for the caring wings that could carry me far away. I told them, gently, that I would be fine. That I saw them and that I recognized their effort to care for me. They burned like small tears in old movie film strips. 

I was sweating profusely at this point, struggling hard to maintain my focus on this bat-winged shape that remained positioned securely in front of my eyes. As I explored the feeling, the part that kept screaming for attention was my lower back. The seat of my pain and struggle for so much of my adult life. Two back surgeries and endless days and nights of pain, suffering and frustration. I needed a drink. 

A quick gulp of cold water. Not really an interruption... just a swallow. The coolness changed my focus immediately. I looked back up at the screen and there was the most picturesque mountain lake, complete with blue cloudless skies and a stunning white float plane, parked near shore. Nothing could take away this stagnant heat, this stifling putrescence... like getting on the float plane and lifting away on cool mountain breezes. Another distraction. Another dissociation. One step and I was away. Far away. 

I held the vision in my mind for a moment, reassuring myself that the float plane would be there when I needed it. That the mountain breeze would still be blowing when I was finished working on the task of the day. That the glacial lake would still be cool and refreshing when I was ready to step into it. 

With that, I came back to the blood-red bat shape and found it leathery, cordovan red, slowly losing its vibrancy and threat. Each time I refocused on the shape I saw it smaller, less important. The tears welling up in my eyes burned a little less. They cooled quickly on my cheeks. 

As I recognized the blood-red bat-shape as adult control, as the desire to force and shape... and saw how that feeling was expected of me, it changed. I could see the blue cold child with different compassionate eyes. It was also the end of the session. Pulling me out of the quasi-hypnotic state, I felt my arms had joined to my legs... struts to hold me upright. Everything from my fingertips to my shoulders was rock hard, locked into place. 

End of session, time to come back into the room. Suddenly there was color and daylight all around me. I know it is still there waiting for my next session. I know that the badger is still sticking his tongue out and is ready to distract me from more pain. The ravens await inside my arms, in case I need to be lifted away. And the blue cold child waits too. 

Writing from the Hip

 Anyone who knows me, knows that twelve years ago, on this day in November, I came home from the hospital. I had been in a coma for just over a month after a surgical complication. After waking in the ICU, I spent another 3 weeks in rehab trying to learn how to walk and feed myself again. And this is where our story picks up. 

Stairs.

My physical therapist on the rehab floor, Lloyd, was a great fellow. Easy going, showed up in the ICU with a smile, and made sure that my hospital bed was arranged so that my body was propped and bent at the hips in bed, in hope of avoiding more back issues down the road. That was a big deal. For a month, they (the generic THEY) had left my body in a chemically induced coma. The plan was to keep the body from dying while it fought off nearly every ailment that can hit you in the ICU; sepsis, peritonitis, pneumonia, MRSA, pleural effusion, you name it. 

What made Lloyd such a stand out guy was that he wasn't phased by it. When he walked into my ICU room, he was upbeat. He didn't have a treatment plan for me yet. The previous PT had left me terrified. At this point I had been unconscious for five weeks, and had near total muscular atrophy. I couldn't lift my arms to scratch my nose. They would prop me in a chair under the premise that it would help me move the crap that was in my lungs from the pneumonia. Bear in mind, I had a major abdominal wound big enough you could fit a fist into (past the wrist), plus no core muscle.... which made sitting in a chair an exercise. It felt like I was about to fall over. It was terrifying. The staff couldnt understand why I was so reluctant. Oh, I left out the fun part. I couldn't talk. I was still living with the tracheostomy at this point. No talking when you have a hole in your throat and tubes to help you breathe. 

Let's talk about tubes. And hoses and wires and leads. Out of every orifice and into holes I wasnt born with, came tubes, lines, hoses and drips. In order to move me to the chair I required the use of a Hoyer Lift (https://www.hoyerlift.com/). Yes, they strapped me into this lift with straps under me, usually pinching my catheter, tugging at my O2 sensor, snagging on my IV lines... it was a mess. The pain was only made worse by the fact that I couldn't do anything to make it better. I couldn't say anything to tell anyone how much pain I was in. All I could do was cry. Once I was set down into the chair, I would be covered in tears and sweat. I think some of the staff thought that I would be happy... but I was terrified. 

Back to Lloyd. 

He came into the ICU one day and was talking about my potential treatment plan with Nancy. He wanted to know more about me. He was asking where I had gone to college. Nancy explained that I had gone to Hampshire College. Surprise! He know about Hampshire and the Five Colleges. He started trying to explain that the cartoon show, Scooby Doo was a reference to the Five Colleges. When he got to explaining that Shaggy represented Hampshire, I was smiling pretty hard. While probably not true in the least, it was funny. I hadn't heard anything funny in eons at that point. 

The next day there was no PT but the nurse on duty realized that I was suffering from severe ICU syndrome, also known as ICU psychosis. All of the beeping, the lack of daylight, the lack of quiet, was all affecting my mind. So this nurse asked the ICU intensivist if I could be taken outside to see the sun. It was a glorious late October day, the day after it had snowed. She bundled me up like a swaddled baby, in layers of blankets and then they carefully lifted me into the same chair I had struggled to sit up in. They propped pillows and more rolled blankets beside me. (I came to find out later that nearly everyone who had cared for me had slept in this chair. Nancy had spent nearly a month camped out in it.) 

Once I was adequately propped and blanketed, they proceeded to roll me down the hall to the elevator. IT HAD WHEELS! I know I shouldn't be surprised by wheels on a reclining chair, but I was amazed. They reclined me and slowly rolled me from the elevator into the main lobby and towards the front door. As the recliner went across the threshold, it went across a series of corrugations that felt like the biggest speed bumps... but it was just little divots across the entryway. The nurse, Lloyd and Nancy helped get my chair across the driveway and out onto a strip of land where I wouldnt be run into by cars rushing to the emergency room. It was so quiet. There were birds. I had forgotten about birds. The leaves were stunning gold. The air was so sharp and crisp. Everyone was wearing coats and jackets. I was steaming inside my mega-bundle of blankets. I asked the nurse if she could unwrap me so that I could cool down. Heat was my enemy. I had run a fever of over 104F during the pneumonia stage of the coma. It had left me terrified of being hot. Patiently, she unwrapped a few layers of my blankets, leaving me to steam out into the chill air. Everyone walking by must have wondered what on earth this guy was doing, steaming outside like that. Hard to explain.

Going back inside felt like going back to jail. 

I knew I wasnt being punished, but I still could only talk with someone else putting their finger over my passy muir valve in my tracheostomy. I didnt have the strength to hold my hand to my throat yet. It also limited me to one word at a time. One breath, one syllable. Keep it simple, right? How do you try to explain all the craziness in your head, all of the questions, fears and delusions, when the very thing that lets you breathe keeps you to one syllable at a time. Two or three words and I was so exhausted that I would sleep for a few hours. 

A few days later, after I had managed to pass the "swallow test" where they fed me blue dyed apple sauce and then watched it move through my intestines via x-ray (live!).... they finally released me from the ICU. I was initially moved into a step-down ward for a day before being allowed onto the rehab floor. 

On the day that I arrived in rehab, I was intensely scared. Many of the nurses had told me "PT is gonna work you so hard. You are going to be so sore." I couldnt sit up on my own yet. I couldnt stand. 

The first few people I met in rehab were the two occupational therapists and the head of the department. There was the most amazing smell of baking cookies coming from the room adjacent to my new room. I know that the staff was dutifully telling me something important about what my schedule of treatment would be and how my room worked or something like that.... but all I could think about was the smell of chocolate chip cookies. I interrupted one of them, asking where that smell was coming from. They explained that as people healed and were able to resume functionality, they would bake and cook as part of their occupational therapy. Oh, now this was something I could get behind. 

As they wrapped up their conversation with Nancy and I, they said something about having the following day off. No PT. No torture. A day off. Oh, and I was allowed to order anything I wanted from kitchen at any time. Huh. 

I had no idea.

Morality through cracked glass

 One of the stranger aspects of the coma was the absence of "a past". Regardless of how we are "present" in the now, we are all comprised of our experiences and our past. Who would we be without who were were in order to change into who we will become. The coma changed my understanding of this.

When I woke up in another place/time/person, inevitably I would be stuck. It didn't matter whether I was awakening in the alpine desert in Montana or if I was waking up in the deep woods of Pennsylvania.... I would wake up stuck. Paralyzed, trapped, unable to move. Initially that comprised my world. What could I see or hear from that position? Who was nearby? Could I understand what was being said? Would anyone talk to me? Was I safe?

What was remarkably absent was any sense of why. I never asked myself: why can't you move? Why can't you speak? Why can't you understand the people around you? Why are you wherever you are? It was just accepted. It was normal. It took me quite a long time of looking back over these experiences to realize that it was because each time I woke up, it was as though someone had scrubbed everything that had happened before that moment. Not just the previous coma dream, but all of my existence. 

Who are we if we didn't have yesterday? When I awake in Montana, I could smell the dry dust road, the sagebrush, even the creek nearby and the overhanging cottonwoods. I could smell the rusted iron on the train tracks. I could smell my own stale sweat. I had absolute certainty about where I was. I was immersed in that moment. The last thing on my mind was what happened the day before. I wasn't from Hialeah, Florida... I was from THERE. Wherever that was... I was there, then. 

All of which leads to a strange conundrum:  morality. Our sense of right and wrong is highly driven by our context; who do we live around, who cares for us, what do "we" believe? When you remove those memories, and remove the context... suddenly you are faced with a child-like mind. The newness of a situation was dumbfounding. Presented with a dilemma, the solution that would have occurred to me in my day-to-day life was unreachable in the coma. There were no threads connecting that life to this life. 

I have a friend who once said that they didn't understand where atheists gained their morality. It shocked me to hear this. I replied that I couldn't understand how someone could possibly get their sense of morality from just their religious faith. It was totally out of context. It seemed as absurd as basing one's morality on Harry Potter or on any other fiction. One's morality is shaped by family, experiences, teachings, and failures. 

This is a lead-up to the beginnings of a story... well, all of the stories really. Let me say again, every time I woke up in a new place, it was Day Zero. There was no day before it. There was no question of who I was or had been. There was no mystery either. It just was as it had always been. Perhaps one could call it inertia. 

To be continued...