Run Like Hell (repost from Oct 2011)

Another short story:


I was helping a young woman find book in the town library. Mind you, I wasn't the librarian, but since I handled all the reshelving and finding of books it was my job. She was looking for an old edition of a magazine and I knew we had bound volumes of this journal on our third floor. Rather than send her up to find it, I told her I would bring it down when I finished my final reshelving for my shift. She wasn't in a huge hurry and sat down to read some of the books she had already amassed.

A quick jaunt up the staff stairwell and I found my booktruck right where I left it. I finished reshelving a dozen or so books and then found the volume of Craft Horizons that she had asked for. Flipping it open I was greeted with a flood of memories. I could see my mother opening the January 1977 issue, all of the clay dust on the cover and the red iron oxide stains on the pages with glaze recipes. I saw potters long-dead that I had never met but knew from our shared history. I saw woodturners whose woodwork had inspired me along the way.

Closing the cover of the hardbound journal, I felt my heart stop for a moment. Unsure why, I quickly raced down the stairs, hoping that the young lady was still waiting. Reaching the first floor, I quickly scanned the reading tables and found her at the main desk, checking out a small stack of books. I brought over the journal and laid it on top of the rest of her selections. She was very curious as to how I could find it so quickly and I explained that I had spent a lot of time going through that section due to my interest in ceramics.

She and were talking about clay and glazes and other potters as we made our way out towards the entrance.  We were just under the threshold when the floor shook. It shook and throbbed. The walls vibrated and rippled. The ceiling over our heads twisted and tore like old parchment.

With a sudden shock, she looked up into my eyes, as though I should know what was happening. At that moment, the floor lurched and I was tossed back into a supporting pillar. The floor beneath us dropped away. The space that moments earlier had been century old hardwood flooring with oak and elm framing was suddenly gone. Rotting earth stared up at me with an open maw.

The next few moments took years to pass. My arm reached out to pull the young lady to the firmament I was planted on adjacent to the pillar. My hand, fully outstretched... her fingers so close. And that look in her eyes. There was no chance. Even if I had reached out sooner, there was no way to reach her. I watched her fall twenty feet or more before being lost to me.

I held tighter to the column, hoping that the rolling tremors would stop and that somehow everything would be okay again. The shaking stopped. Then the floors above me began to give way and suddenly the air around me was filled with huge walls of books from the second and third floors crashing through the floor and passing right beside me.... anxious to choke the gigantic opening in the earth.

Between the smell of decaying wood, of mold and mildew, of old wood dust, of wet earth... between all of these ripe raw smells that assaulted me, my own imminent fall to my death... and all I could think about was that I didn't even know this young lady's name.

As the dust cleared and the books and shelves stopped crashing, the sheer magnitude of the event was made clear. The entire structure had been undermined. It was gone. No floors, no walls, no people. Just the outer shell of the building. This library had been a large barn in its first incarnation and as a result the outer shell was incredibly strong. The subsequent additions had made the barn into a library. Rooms for offices, storage and of course storage for books.  Looking around me, it seemed like somehow the building had shrugged off the last hundred years and emptied it into this gigantic earthen trash can beneath me.

In a desperate act of self-preservation, I started making my way across the rubble, clinging to structural members as best I could. Outside of the library, people were doing their level best to reach those trapped inside. Cars, trucks and tractors were all shining their headlights into the now-empty shell. The glare from their high beams made it impossible to see where I was going. It was worse than the sudden darkness from all the falling debris. I had to get out.

Each time I moved I had to check my feet to ensure that I was on solid ground that would bear my weight. When the soft roiled earth started to move under my shoe, I was sure the upheaval had begun again. Imagine my shock when I could finally see down into the cloudy debris... and through the dust, through the beams of light cast by the townsfolk, I could barely make out the bodies. Dozens of them. With layers of fallen wood, timbers, earth and years of books... these bodies were crumpled under the massive weight. No one made a sound. There were no cries for help.

With only a few feet ahead of me, the only thing blocking my way out was a huge rift in the ground. Perhaps only five or six feet across, with those bright lights in my eyes, it may as well have been a mile. I couldn't take the chance. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a clearer, safer path. With the light behind me, I could see to either side of my shadows. Bit by bit, I reached, clawed and cried my way to the farside of the building. Just a matter of inches away from the staff entrance, I saw that exit completely blocked with piles of timbers and fallen shelving. I could hear the townspeople just outside the way. All of the plaster and lath had cracked away in the upheaval. As a result, I could see cracks in the outer shell of the structure.

Like any old barn, those boards and battens were held in place with old nails. A few swift desperate kicks and I had one board loose. Enough room to get my head part-way through so I could breathe and scream for help. No words came out...just spittle and desperate whines. There was no way I could wait any longer. With one huge push, I shoved aside the adjacent boards and with a loud creak and then snap... I was free. I was outside the building. All the action was happening on the other side of the library, but I was outside at last. The cold gravel from the driveway felt like soft summer grass as I laid there and thought about what had just happened.

Sleep found me long before the searchers did.

Crying The Dust From My Eyes

A week from now, I will celebrate my second anniversary of the most emotional day of my life.... October 11th, 2009, I woke up from my coma.

I've had my hands full lately trying to wrestle with all the complications brought on by my failed surgeries two years ago. Not everyone understands how completely botched my surgical procedure ended up... or what the long term consequences have been. I'll save that recap for another night. For now, let's just say that recovery doesn't happen overnight and the stress never really goes away.

How does one go about celebrating a horrific event? Do you throw a party? Do you bake a cake? How many candles are you supposed to blow out? Do you exchange presents? I feel like our culture really lacks for ways to mourn and grieve. We have a million ways to party into oblivion, thousands of ways to excuse our indulgent behavior, but so few ways to share grief.

Given this obvious lack of cultural guidance for mourning, I will do what I do best.... I'll share a story.

The cool night breeze that spilled through the vents in the camper trailer was just enough to take the edge off the last remnants of the day's heat. The aluminum trailer walls were still warm to the touch. All day through the hundreds of miles, the trailer got hotter and hotter. Now, the sweet wind that trickled in was so welcome. 

The hardest part was trying to decide if rolling over was worth the slippery unsticking, and repositioning, or would it be too much effort to try to cool off the side that had laid against the sodden mattress? So much pain, so much fatigue. The delerium came in waves like nausea. Even turning my head was too much work. The many bags of overripe potatoes that held me down to the bed made moving almost impossible... until I realized nothing was resting on me except a thin sheet. 

By the time the first recoil of revulsion rolled through me, I was able to make out sounds outside. We had stopped for the night. Judging from the sounds of loose fine gravel underfoot, I guessed probably a parking lot. It wasn't overlong before I could begin to make sense of the strains of music outside. I knew I had to be in Hell since only in Hell would they play modern country music over a cheap PA system just loud enough for it to sound like cats fighting in a two liter soda bottle. It wasn't long before I heard another person walk by. The gravel made sense now. We had to be parked somewhere. The trailer had stopped all the shaking and rolling. We were definitely parked.

When I heard the many throated roars pull into the parking lot, I couldn't quite count the number of motorcycles, but my guess was a good half-dozen. As each biker shut down their ride, and the silence returned, more feet outside my world made me aware of just how thin these walls were. Their exhaust hung too long in the air and was now coming in on the night breeze. Great. The nausea returned and with it, whatever remains of my lunch I had, came right up.

Each passing person sounded so close but no one came to open the door of the camper. Wishful thinking had me praying for someone to stop, perhaps hearing my breathless pleading. My whispers amounted to nothing. I pressed on the walls but even my hardest pounding was but a feather touch on the aluminum sides. I had only enough strength to gag again as I tried to breathe my way through the pain. Blinking hard to push dry-salted tears out in hopes that they might rinse clean the bits of vomit that I couldn't reach before falling back asleep exhausted.
The music outside changed while I slept. By the time I roused, the only sounds were of argument and bravado. My guess was that some of the bikers had done or said something to someone and now were itching for something to get angry with. The violence was palpable. I waited for the sound of breaking glass, of screaming, of fists and leather. 

Instead I was surprised to hear the soft metal hinge of the trailer open. The blast of cold desert night air rushed in with just enough dust to steal away my breath. I coughed twice and tried to open my eyes. Finding them crusted over again and weeping burning hot salt tears, I just wept. When I heard her voice ask how I was doing, I fell. I fell and fell. Over black empty space. As she pressed the cold wet cloth into my eyes, clearing away the debris, I could see the concern and worry across her face. She passed a new, fresh, colder cloth over my brow, running it over my neck, ears, and back over my brow again. Her gaze met mine and we both realized I was awake. 

The trailer was gone. Replaced by small and boisterous Italian restaurant. The heady rush of  rosemary and oregano permeated the air. Olive oil and simmering tomatoes... definitely an Italian restaurant. On the wall in front of me was a small space reserved for waiters to process their orders, write up checks and other miscelania. Just to the left of that was a small alcove that had two small wall plaques made of plaster and painted; one of fruit and one of vegetables. A small way past the waiter's station and slightly to the right was a short set of stairs and a door to the outside.

Standing in the doorway was the most amazing sight I have ever beheld. My wife leaned against the counter, hands on her hips as though surprised I noticed she was there. Refocusing my eyes, I could see our dear friend Mary Ellen standing beside her. They moved closer to me and for the first time in years, I could clearly  make out what was being said. 

Nancy pulled closer and was so happy to see me that she was crying. Fighting everything holding me back, I pulled and pulled but couldn't budge. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Nancy looked into my eyes and tried to explain what had happened. It didn't make any sense. All I wanted was to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her I wasn't gone. 

In the end, all I could do was cry. The tube in my throat made it impossible for me to say what I so desperately wanted to say. So I cried. Nancy brought her head closer to me and tried to figure out what I was trying to communicate. Standing back up she asked if I was trying to tell her that I loved her. I didn't know tears could be so hot. She knew. It was her birthday. All I could do was cry. 

Muddling Through and Looking Back

Two years ago today, I sat in my room on the rehabilitation floor of the hospital. The surgeon came into my room after lunch, and with a few snips of thread attached to my neck, cut and lifted out my tracheostomy tube. With little more than a wide strip of gauze across the open slice in my throat, I was told... "that's it."

Sitting there, exhaling with emphasis to feel the hot air pushing out of my throat... has to have been one of the most odd experiences in my life. No restrictions on food or drinking. It wasn't like they had to line things up in my throat, or sew things back together. Just pull out the tube, and all is well and normal. Weird!

Now here I sit, two years later. All the weight that had melted off while I sweated through fever after fever in the ICU, is back on (minus about 15 pounds.) I have more issues with my health than I can shake a fist at. I thought, at the time (in the rehab unit) that all I needed to do was get out of the hospital, start walking and everything would be fine. 

We never dreamed I would herniate so massively. We never expected the colostomy to be so problematic. I never imagined that diabetes would determine the course of my life. I certainly never thought that I would have heart issues or sleep apnea to contend with. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Two years on... and I am planning to go in for a gastric bypass surgery this winter. Yep. I am going to let them turn my stomach into a mini-pouch. The plan is to lose the better part of a hundred pounds and then the surgical team in Rochester will rebuild my innards and remove this colostomy. They also aim to remove the hernias and fix all of my abdominal muscles. Should be exciting!

In the meantime, I struggle. 

It's the little things... like trying to tie my shoes while maneuvering around this distension in my abdomen. I feel (and look) like a pregnant woman. I struggle with the MRSA that I picked up in the hospital... as I go through outbreaks on my skin about every 4-5 weeks. No fun. 

I try to think about what life will be like two years from now, when all the surgeries are done and healed. 

I try to think about going out in my kayak and not worrying that getting in and out of my boat might cause my intestines to burst out of my stomach. I try to imagine being able to lift groceries from the van, or hugging my wife as hard as I want to. And when I think of how it will feel to not be carrying around all this massive weight... it is wild. Strange. Wild. Alien. I am excited about the prospect. Scared out of my wits too. The PTSD makes damned sure to raise its ugly head every time I am in the hospital or meeting with a doctor. 

Which brings me to this week's self-portraits. It has been a good week. Lots to think over. Lots of things, small things, being accomplished. Some new opportunities. Some old issues coming to the surface. 

All of that shows up in these portraits. I think that's what draws me to photograph things every day. The pathos. The life. The hope of catching the story with just a glimpse and a flicker of light.