08/13/2023
The other day, Krisha posted about the times she has followed my hospital bed as I was wheeled into procedures.
I had no idea she was following me on Monday. (And honestly, most of the times she mentioned, I was too out of it to know she was there.)
When we got to the elevator lobby this week, the anticipation of being jostled across the threshold triggered a wave of emotion. My body remembered, but now it wanted me to let go.
And then the technician spun the bed around to pull me into the elevator, and I saw Krisha standing there. The only thing I could muster to say was, "It's the elevator lobby."
In a way, Monday's procedure was closing a loop that had opened almost eleven years ago.
In 2012, I was in a precarious state, and we were placing a dialysis catheter in an emergency situation, on a weekend, after Krisha had fought to have it done right away.
This week, we were calmly removing the catheter I've had for the last year because the recent crisis has passed.
On December 21, 2013, it dawned on me that it was exactly a year from the day the first catheter went in, so I wrote the post below.
The meanings I draw from these moments and sensations and memories have changed over time, and I imagine they'll change forever.
In the meantime, I'm trying to be permeable—letting emotions and thoughts come and go as they will, opening space for trauma and judgment to leave as fast as they will and for grace and hope and curiosity to flood into the void.
It's not always easy. But I'm grateful for the 3,521 days I've had to practice. And for Krisha and all of you who have helped me.
* * * * *
GURNEY
12/21/2013
A year ago today, I came to my senses on a hospital gurney. The bright light made it hard to keep my eyes open, but I perceived I was back in a place I knew. I wasn't sure whether I was coming or going, but I began to understand I was in a transitional space.
There was a rumble and a bell and a whooshing sound. And that's when I knew where I was—the elevator lobby.
Krisha started talking to me, softly, lovingly. Then my mom grabbed my hand. I was too drugged up to follow what Krisha was saying—she tried to explain some procedure—but mostly she and Mom kept reassuring me, telling me not to be afraid.
It had been a rough week and a half since the surgery. My kidneys had shut down, I had gained 30 pounds from water retention, I felt so bloated it was hard to breathe, dialysis was not going well with the access in my neck, and we were still trying to find the right balance of painkillers to help me sleep. The big success of the week was that I had finally farted a few times and pooped on Thursday. (Yes, Krisha's notes are thorough.) Huzzah.
Now here I was, on my way to a procedure I didn't understand. But I was sure of one thing, given the way Krisha and Mom were talking to me—there was a strong chance I wasn't coming back.
This would be the last time the gurney guy would bounce me over that damn gap between the elevator and landing. The last time I'd feel Mom pat my swollen feet. The last time I'd see Krisha's blue eyes and bright smile. I was sure of it.
Of course, I wondered for a moment why Krisha and Mom seemed so calm—even happy—about sending me off to my demise. No tears. No promises to fulfill my dying wish. No threatening the doctors as they had done before. Just them telling me over and over not to be afraid.
I tried to say my goodbyes but fumbled it badly. I hadn't ever thought this moment through, and now my brain was fried. But I was calm. Yes, even if unexpected, this was exactly what I wanted—smiles, I love yous, a tight squeeze of the hand, a kiss, everyone at peace, even happy.
We banged into the elevator, the doors whooshed shut, and a few minutes later I rolled into a darkened procedure room.
It started badly—the excruciating move from gurney to table, being inverted, feeling like I couldn't breathe, finally going under.
I came to my senses again a short while later, back in my room, to see that same smile and those blue eyes and feel that same hand squeezing my foot. And knowing a little better now how I want to live, or really, how I want to die.
In the last day, I've pulled an all-nighter finishing up some good work, flown from brilliant sun to stunning snow, hung out with my entire family, seen a beautiful play, and eaten so much I can hardly breathe. Nothing extraordinary, but I'm extraordinarily grateful for such ordinary things.
I started out this evening planning to post a few family photos with Santa, so I have no idea where all of this came from. Maybe it's to acknowledge that I couldn't have survived the last year without my wife and family. And I couldn't have made it without the many friends who called, emailed, snail-mailed, texted, visited, gave gifts, encouraged, or simply sent a positive thought in my direction.
Thank you all for a wonderful 365 days.
