A Sentence

It's not a death sentence. It's just life without parole.

And I'll take that.

After avoiding posting about this for six months or so, it's time to update where I'm currently at and give more attention to this blog. A poet has a right to be staggered by circumstance just like anyone else. But like every other human, he must slip the noose somehow and defeat his captors. There is no other way. So.... words are crouched under my fingernails and it's time to recount what has been happening and get on with things....

In late May, I began feeling a bit winded after a bike ride. What caught my attention was that my fatigue didn't feel like Sorry-Ass-40-Something-Out-Of-Shape-Dude fatigue. This was something more. Like a deep discomfort in my upper-belly/lower-chest. Of course, I dismissed it right away as acid-reflux symptoms.

About 4 days later, the "acid-reflux" felt more like hand-grenades going off in my chest. I went to my doctor and he did an EKG test. Upon reading the results, he called an ambulance and sent me to the emergency room. I was experiencing a "cardiac event" (is there a Hallmark card for that ?).

I underwent a triple bypass on May 29, followed by 8 days of hospitalization. After that, I recovered at my brother and sister-in-law's house in the suburbs for a couple of months. Those months were a blur of pain meds, HMO paperwork, and listening to my body like I haven't done since puberty.

The first few showers I took were careful, methodical 45-minute affairs. The leg incisions where they took the grafting veins were the worst. Three separate 3x5 bandages covered incisions that looked like swollen lines of rope licorice. I limped, shifted slowly, and balanced my weight carefully every time. The steam from the shower helped loosen the bandages. It was a difficult tear. The blood and pus swirled down the drain as if Hitchcock filmed it himself. Bathroom linoleum looked like murder and I measured every move like a chess master.

Think ahead or lose.

And so it went. A painkiller called Norco and prescription-strength Ibuprofen. And as the days went by, I was able to see every corner of my prison cell. Count every day of my sentence. Things got better and I re-captured the summer precisely on July 15 at 4:30 P.M. when tUnEyArDs performed at Pitchfork Music Fest. Under the arches of maples and elms, with a cold Newcastle Summer Ale, the music never sounded and felt so good.

In September came more trouble - an angioplasty and three stents implanted. What can I do ?

Don't look at me.

Life goes on and I expect curveballs. Nothing was ever promised. My friends should look to me as an early example of how to deal with failing health. I stare right back.

Right in the eyes.

Because it's life without parole - not a death sentence.

Life on a handful of pills.
Life on healthy food.
Life on daily exercise.

I'll cop that plea.