Bronze

The wedding anniversary specialists tell me that the eighth is bronze. Since I’m a geezer, I’m way past that one. But today marks eight years since the day I spent 10 ½ hours on the operating table at Columbia Presbyterian under the skillful scalpel of Dr. Paul McCormick, neurosurgeon to the stars. He got all of that ten inch spinal cord tumor. I think my readers are well aware of my medical history, except that one in Sweden (Hello Annie!). In fact, most of my readers were critical members of my recovery team.

That was quite an eventful time and some of those memories have come back to me today. They wheeled me from post-op to my room in the evening and I guess I was expecting the same type of treatment I got in my hometown hospital after my first surgery, where they wiped every sniffle and often asked me how I was doing. I was in for rude awakening. I was at CP for the surgery, not the aftercare. As the evening progressed, I came to realize this and voiced my concerns, eventually very loudly. My wife was in the residential unit on another floor and I asked them repeatedly to get her. My mouth felt like a desert that someone had been stomping through recently and I couldn’t get a drink. After being ignored for a while, I started screaming for about half an hour. They got my wife.

I felt a little bit of remorse the next day, but only for my wife. And of course the poor bastard who was my roommate. The night shift could go to hell. My wife was stuck with me but roomie got out that day. Now I was the poor bastard in the room. My new cohabitant was fresh off the streets and had a sidekick from the security department with him. He may have been handcuffed to the bed as well, but I wasn’t up and around much so I’m not sure. He did pay me a visit once during meal time. I made nice by giving him a couple salt packets he wasn’t supposed to have. What the hell, I wasn’t his doctor.

I think I got one shower that week. My daily exercise was going from the bed to the door and back with a walker. That was good for twenty minutes of cardio. The physical therapy department took an aggressive approach and had me stand up the first day after surgery. Fortunately my buds Dr. Joe and Jimmy The Wig along with my brother-in-law were in the room. My morphine addled memory recalls that first physical therapist as being about 5’6” and 140 pounds. If it wasn’t for my posse, I would have crushed him before I crumpled in a heap on the floor.

After a week at CP, I got a reprieve from the governor. I had a scenic ambulance ride over to the Kessler Institute in West Orange, the same place where Christopher Reeve spent time after his accident. The staff at Kessler was very attentive so no stentorian complaints were necessary. The days there passed slowly. I looked forward to the communal breakfasts, where I met people worse off than me, many permanently confined to wheelchairs. We also had twice daily rehab sessions, 1 ½ hours each. A very skilled and dedicated staff helped me take on the arduous task of learning to walk again.

Kessler took care of every detail of my life the three weeks I spent there, except laundry. I was fortunate that The Wig and his wonderful wife lived close by and visited regularly. And they did my laundry. There was a coin washer on site. I tried maneuvering my wheelchair in there once to wash a load but I recall not being able to reach it. During my time there I also got a visit from The Wolverine. He came down from Boston on a snowy day to spend several hours with me. If memory serves, he trekked through the snow in a pair of purple Converse Hi Tops. He’s one hell of a nice guy, just not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

After a couple weeks there, they removed the 25 or so staples that spanned my neck to the middle of my back. They also began discussing my departure and where I would continue therapy back home. I was treated great but I wanted to get the hell out of there. My wife came back out and we hopped on an insurance company sponsored first class flight to SF. The warm mixed nuts were tasty but I couldn’t take advantage of the free booze at that point. My parents and 4M and his wife were waiting for us at the airport. I got to see my kids for the first time in a month and misted up. Its times like that that reinforces what is really important in this life.

Eight years on, things are much different. Thanks to the medical community and a great personal trainer, I’m in pretty good physical shape. Thanks to my friends and family, especially my wife, I’m in good emotional shape. I’ve had to make a few concessions to my condition, like a hand brake in my car. As I’ve told 4M on several occasions, braking is an important part of driving. In closing, I’m going to have to disagree with Friedrich Nietzsche. My take is that which does not kill you can certainly mess you up pretty good.