The Field

My eyes, heavy with crust from an unwanted sleep, open up to the sky. A deep red glow from above permeates everything, and it feels like anger on the rise. "My heart is up there in that sky," I think. Caustic trails of smoke glide through the air and hang with impertinence and I can't shake the thought of not being able to breathe. I inhale as I must. The poison air feels like slithering worms that chew chasms from my lungs to the rest of my body. Each breath sends me into a fit of throat spasms and coughing.

A tremendous field stretches before me as far as I can see. I have heard of this place. On several occasions I had been told it was wrought from pure terror. I had wondered when I would be sent here. The unchecked expanse of the field demolishes my spirit. My eyes even yearn for blindness so this crushing blow can be blotted from my view. It is at times like these when I wonder if, perhaps, I’m unlucky, having been blessed with the ability to see so clearly the true wretchedness of things. The field resembles the terrain of a desert, offering mostly gentle slopes with an occasional short cliff. And despite the gradual landscape, the field is a severe host of unparalleled and continuous pain. It teems with sheets of torn metal, some large and mangled, standing like grotesque trees and others the size of slivers, waiting with barbs to tear my skin and anchor into my flesh. For every piece of metal there is also a piece of glass. Piles of it litter the ground in every direction while larger pieces - clear, curved and jagged - jut into the sky as wicked spires.

I have no shoes, so I begin to run barefoot. I have no choice. I have been forced here because of my willingness to trust the untrustworthy, because of my willingness to put myself in harm's way for those who eventually don't deserve such sacrifice. And, what's more, if my gait slows, then something more horrific than glass and metal will cut me. I recall the many warnings, that grave and serious voice of the child. She told me about the Blood Thieves. They will come after me. They know I'm weak. They want my blood. They want to push my body to the edge of life over and over again, to feed them forever. I scan the horizon in all directions. I don’t see them . . . yet.

Through the field I run carefully as I can, but my effort still fails to avoid the lacerations and tears. Some gouges are deep. On the worst wounds my skin recedes like a slug stabbed with a sharp stick, exposing the fat and muscle beneath. At each cut, my skin falls slack and begins to flap in the rushing wind. These flaps of skin become thousands of wretched personal flags . . . banners of terror, of seething anger, of epic disappointment . . . and of sadness that, with the most fiendish malevolence, could detract the happiest of smiles. My blood pours and pours onto the field, painting the glass and metal with dark red.

I hear the first of the shrieks. From afar, they sound like woeful birds of prey, hungry and desperate. Their hunt is in full stride. Their malignant cries are accompanied by the sound of glass shattering and metal warbling as thunder as the field's debris gives way to their frenzied march. I steal a shaky glance toward their incessant noise and I see the first of them mount the crest of a glittering hill. They spot me and the volume of their shrieks pierce the air and smoke, causing the nearest sheets of glass to fly apart. I can see the drool and froth shimmer from their corners of their mouths. I pick up the pace.

I'm now running from a century of Blood Thieves, malefactors frantic to drink of the nutrition I leave behind on slabs of glass and clamoring for the chance . . . the chance to pick at my severed veins and point them into their selfish, greedy mouths. They are relentless and indiscriminate. I can hear them screaming and groaning as they grow nearer. Soon, I will see the full breadth of their disfigured bodies, their ugly faces. They are the epitome of humans taking, taking, and taking – all around, the most wretched of human parasites. I'm in their territory and all I can think about is getting to the end of this field, where their strength wanes and mine doubles.

But even the outermost borders of this awful field will not stop the stronger ones. They will follow me home and visit me from time to time as uninvited guests. Blood Thieves are always uninvited. They will enter my home by force and, sometimes - in my weaker moments - with my consent. They'll pull out their blood kits and stick me with crusty needles attached to tubes, and I'll watch my nutrition flow and gurgle unto them. I'll be able to kick them out eventually, but none of this will be possible unless I can make it home, unless I can remember what I am worth.

I keep running. I trip and suffer the misfortune of being embraced by a thorny, metallic tree. The Blood Thieves arrive at my heels and begin shrieking . . . oh, the hideous shrieking, the screams of my forthcoming downfall. They surround me with steaming hot wire brushes and employ them ferociously, rubbing salt into my wounds to add flavor . . . and pain. I pass out briefly and then regain consciousness to the sound of ravenous chewing and evil snickering.

And then, I realize there is something inside of me that they can't possibly eat away. It is a pure, unchecked will bred from my past, a perseverance sourced from titans, a knowledge of the generous love I am apt to share. I tap into this reservoir, a hidden chamber of my heart. There, I find a resilience that many forget to cultivate, especially as they overlook taking care of themselves.

I free myself from the strangling tree by biting at my own flesh. I burst forth from claws and teeth. The Blood Thieves reach for me desperate for more of my good nature. They wail and fight to keep me down. They fall away one by one, and, beyond my own expectations, I stand . . . I find the wherewithal to lunge forward and keep running. I know too well the notions of give and take. I know the pain can't go on forever. I know the demons can't live long outside of its borders. I know . . . this vast field has an end.

In the Ash We Fall - The Story of Meeting Elspeth

At first, no one really noticed the strange ash falling from the sky. It fell as isolated flakes, tiny collections of soft dust and dirt. They stood out no more than, say, an emergency flare floating lazily into the flames of a raging forest fire. And then, the ash came down thicker and thicker, resembling a thousand cherry trees stacked on a thousand more and letting loose their blossoms in steady, floating waves.

It was alarmingly beautiful in the beginning.

And then . . . it just became alarming.

Yes, oh yes. When the ash really began to fall, people flocked from their homes to gawk at the dark, grey sky. They left their front doors unlocked. They abandoned their late-morning brunch plates. They stopped their bickering and their merry-making. The registers were left unattended. All conversations, no matter how insipid or deeply-trained, stopped abruptly and trailed off into hushed murmurs and awestruck silence. People thronged the streets; we flooded schoolyards and ran to rooftops. Shoulder to shoulder, we packed open baseball fields and the balconies of every apartment building.

Everyone shoved their way around like sheep in a herd and held their palms up, open to the falling ash. At first, they did it out of whimsical curiosity – as if their bright eyes looked upon nothing more than a charming, yet untimely snow shower in the month of May. But the moment of charm fell on its face and the onlookers’ eyes widened and their jaws slackened. While holding out hope for a freakish snow, their hands instead came up smudged with grey. Many tried to wipe it away on their jackets and their pant legs, but it only smeared deeper into the lines of their hands and the swirling prints of their fingertips. Everything they touched turned grey.

This is what I saw in Seattle. This is precisely what happened all over the world. Angry, storm-like clouds suddenly materialized in all directions, covered the earth, and began spewing ash.  It looked like snow. It fell like snow. It began to accumulate just like snow.

The first ash flake in my hand.

I was one of those people standing in the street. I held my bike in one hand and outstretched the other in front of me. I caught a flake of ash. It was a cluster of soft, vein-like soot resting on my palm. I inspected it. It looked like a tiny root ball. I blew a swift puff of air on it. I expected it to take flight from my open hand, but it disintegrated and a plume of dust burst forth and settled at my feet.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye an older man standing next to me. He was a fella who often asked for spare change on the street, a man who people avoided as he yelled at imaginary ghosts. He wore an oversized, wool coat that was so dirty that it miraculously seemed cleaner as more ash fell on it – just like how when snow covers the land and it makes everything look uniformly white.

The man turned to me and said, “I hope you know how to love, man, ‘cause this world’s gonna need it to get through what’s comin'.”

“What’s coming?” I asked him pensively.

“There's gon' be blood comin',” he answered. “You gon’ need love when you see that blood.”

The man walked away, muttering to himself about how he was going to get ready. “Ready for what?” I thought to myself. “Ready . . . for what?”

Considering the region, we all thought Mt. Rainier had finally blown, but no earthquakes had rumbled, no colossal blast occurred, no pyro-clastic clouds formed. We glued ourselves to TVs and radios. No reports made sense of the ash. Earlier that morning, with nothing seemingly amiss, we ambled along with clouds overhead, which was, of course, nothing new to Seattle. But, by the time evening had descended, everything was covered in three inches of dark, grey soot.

And the ash kept falling.

Sure, people panicked eventually, but most everyone simply went about their day. It seemed to me most folks were in denial of the phenomenon; they claimed they were too busy to give it any thought. Some people, however, hid indoors, fearful something more terrible would fall from the sky. Religious zealots ranted furiously, saying the fire and brimstone would come next. Government officials and public figures made statements to assuage the masses . . . and it almost worked. A sort of organized chaos ensued and then it escalated.

I knew what to do, though.

I was built for this kind of event, like how I’m innately talented at talking about my feelings or how I’m particularly inclined to date women with armpit hair. Certainly, I reckon these are odd quirks for a man, but we are all born with some uncanny and unusual tendencies. And me, I was given the gift of managing and surviving bizarre emergencies. Although, until the ash came, this talent had never really been tested.

Nevertheless, in a matter of 20 minutes after the first ash-flake fell in my open hand, I had bolted to the nearest grocery store to buy supplies. I had made nearly half a dozen trips for food and water before other people started doing the same thing. I managed to fit in 6 more trips before the grocery store became mostly empty of rations and full of frantic people. I left when a man got stabbed for a handful of candy bars. I returned to my apartment. I locked the door and installed a heavy chain over it, from jamb to jamb. I called my family and friends . . . and waited.

The first few weeks were wretched. I didn't leave my apartment. Dumbstruck, I listened to reports of murders and looting on the radio. The first week snowplows desperately tried to clear roads so more supplies could get through, but even with open roads most trucks were raided by even more desperate people, hunting for food. So many people died that week.

The ash kept falling.

At the end of the second week, a man attempted to break into my apartment through a ground floor window in the middle of the night. When getting my door open didn't work, I yelled at him to leave, but he busted out the window with a crowbar anyway and began climbing a ladder into my apartment. I turned all the lights off. Two flashlights switched on behind the man. At least two people were ready to help him.

“We’re coming in! Give us some food or we’ll kill you and take it all!” he hollered.

I decided to remain quiet so as to not alert him of my position. I darted out of the flashlight beams and tip-toed in the dark to the side of the window and waited patiently for him to place a hand on the sill, which I promptly smashed with a hammer. I heard a crunch. He screamed and fell from the ladder. I followed my initial assault with projectiles launched from a sling shot I made from large rubber bands I used for physical therapy on my shoulder. I hit one flashlight man and all three of them bolted. I spent the rest of the night removing all the closet doors in my apartment and screwing them to the frames of my windows.

The temperature had noticeably dropped by the third week with highs in the low 40s. The temperature would continue to fall with the ash clouds completely blotting out the sun. People began worrying about a forthcoming ice age. Several feet of ash had fallen and most of the city had become impassable.

And then, the ash suddenly stopped. Though, the strange, thick clouds remained.

New reports started coming in and I watched them on the internet, which surprisingly still worked. In fact, with only a few brief interruptions here and there, electricity, water, and gas had all remained constant. People organized and community militias formed to protect utility workers and civic personnel. For days on end I helped teams of people armed with shovels to dig out nearby hospitals. While doing that I had the misfortune of uncovering a man buried in the ash. I found him crumpled next to a fire hydrant with the contents of his skull ejected nearby. His wallet was gone. In light of the terror, heroes literally rose from the ashes and the horror stories eventually gave way to ones of triumph and compassion.

Some places suffered more than others, but, all in all, about 46 million people died, which is a small number really, considering the population of the planet. Many people took this as a sign that not all was lost, that we weren't such a bad species after all. I think, in some sense, they were right.

Even though the dark clouds did not break, the sun could sometimes be seen through the eerie veil. The temperature held and scientists noticed a strange, yet positive side effect – our world's glaciers were no longer receding. After a month of difficult work, order was eventually restored. Supplies started getting to their destinations. Businesses began re-opening.

This semblance of normalcy had hiccups, though, when the ash would occasionally return. All productivity halted the moment the vein-like balls starting floating to the ground again. People feared the return of anarchy, but the ash would stop after only a few hours. And then it disappeared for a week and returned again for a day. This became the new normal, constant cloud cover with occasional ash fall. It remained this way for months and people, more or less, went back to their lives.

New jobs and trends developed over the next few years. Ash removal. Ash insurance – if the “big one” hits again. Cars came equipped with ash plows, winches, and special windshield wipers. If it rained, everything turned to mud and rubber boots couldn't be made fast enough. Handkerchiefs and goggles had also become fashionable – as they would often be used to cover one’s mouth and eyes while traveling outside. People began installing state-of-the art ventilation systems to keep ash out of buildings. Construction standards even changed and “dust rooms” were built at the entrances of every house and building. These dust rooms blew forced air onto the people inside and then vacuumed ash from their clothes before actually entering a structure. People even started naming their newborns Ash and Dusty to commemorate the cataclysm.

Dressed in ash, ready to see the blood, ready to give the love it needs.

There were a lot of theories about why the ash had come, but nobody really knew the cause for sure. Some insisted it could be explained by science and others believed the fire and brimstone was still on its way. As for me, I thought about the ash a lot. It occurred to me that each of us would find our own personal reasons for the ash and we’d learn them when the time was right. I had no epiphany about this until three years after that first ash-flake had fallen onto my hand.

This one evening, the ash was falling hard; the little root balls stuck together and fell as soft, amorphous shapes, some as big as baseballs. I had a crush on this gal I knew, and for a man who had struggled for years to find a partner worth keeping, this one seemed to hit the mark like no other. Her name was Tess. I was smitten. In fact, it might be more appropriate to say I was driven. I had to know her and it was unclear if she had similar feelings. Well, actually, I’m pretty sure she didn't even know my name.

I was late, on my way to see her at an art show, an installment of her photography at a local gallery. The show was called “Under the Ash,” which explored the aftermath of the initial storm. One of her pictures was of the man I found near the hospital by the fire hydrant. The back of my leg and the shovel I used were in the foreground. I remember when she took that picture, but my back was facing her. By the time I turned around she had her camera poised in the opposite direction and she walked away. I planned to tell her the story of uncovering the man’s body, while pointing out my leg in her picture. Getting her phone number seemed imminent.

As I said, I was late. I ran out the door and in a matter of seconds clumps of ash had covered my goggles. I smeared the ash away with the back of my hand and kept jogging through the heavy ash. I left puffs of dust in my tracks. My goggles had nearly gone opaque again. I reached up to wipe them off once more, but didn't succeed. Instead, I suddenly collided head-long into another person. We smashed together and spun off in different directions. I landed head-first into a low hedge and the other person sprawled out flat on their back on the sidewalk. I was clearly heavier than them.

I pulled myself from the shrubbery and staggered over to the other person. My goggles were lost and I tasted blood in my mouth. I knelt next to the person, who was finally rousing from the impact and had the shape of a tall woman. Blood matted her handkerchief.

“Damn, I’m sorry. You ok?” I asked as I helped her sit up.

She shook her head to scatter the stars that must have been circling her head.

“Yeah, I think so. And you?” she returned.

Her voice was deep, but it sang a handful of notches above baritone.

“I think I split my lip open on your forehead.”

She chuckled and said, “Sorry, I shouldn't have been running in this shit weather.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. I was running too.”

“Oh,” she said and then paused to pull her goggles up to her forehead. “My nose is bleeding.”

“Do you think it’s broken?”

She gingerly squeezed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and announced, “No, just a little bloody. Ack, I need to get cleaned up. I’m late for a show.”

“I have a place nearby. You can get cleaned up there.”

“Wha- . . . oh, sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

I helped her to her feet. She stood nearly as tall as me and had a shape to behold. We walked back to my apartment. The dust room outside cleaned us up – mostly. Upon entering, my cat greeted us, as if to say “Back so soon?” I chirped back at her. She stared at me with big, green eyes, mewed once, and then walked over to my bleeding guest to rub her tiny face on her ankles.

“Welcome. That’s my cat, Eva. The bathroom is this way.”

“Thanks,” she said through a pinched nose. The bleeding was already subsiding.

We walked together. The woman wore all black and she had on petite boots that clunked on my hardwood floor. I flicked on the light and she walked past me to the sink. I joined her. We pulled our handkerchiefs down simultaneously. We both had blood on our mouths and chins. She had three black rings in her septum. My lip was definitely split open, but not too bad. We smiled at each other in the mirror.

“We’re  hilarious,” I said and she issued a quick, amused puff of air from her nose, which resulted in blood spatter on the mirror.

We laughed.

“Yeah, fucking hilarious,” she returned. “Sorry about that. First aid supplies?”

“Don't worry about it. And, yeah, in the drawer at your feet.”

Our blood touching in the sink.

Together, we stood side-by-side tending to our wounds and giving each other funny, sideways glances. Her eyes were brilliant, ice blue and her hair was shoulder-length, straight with short bangs, and the color of a raven. We introduced ourselves and shook hands between the exchange of warm, wet washcloths and taking turns to spit blood in the sink. The sink was where our blood touched for the first time. 

Her name was Elspeth.

“What show are you going to?” I asked.

“Ash Fall.”

“Oh, is that the space metal band whose members all lost somebody in the ash storm?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I saw them play last year.”

“Yeah . . . actually, I’m not really going to see them. I kinda have a crush on a fella who works the venue.”

I smiled and barely remembered I was going to a show myself. I told Elspeth about my crush. She shook her head and looked amused.

“Would you like a whiskey before you go?” I offered.

“Sure. Yeah, I would like that".

We relocated to my kitchen and I poured the drinks. In the end, neither one of us made it to our shows. And how we met, falling in ash, became one of our favorite stories.

A Hunter in My Ear

She called herself Hunter. And, with a name like that you’d think I was chatting with a stripper in Portland – and it just so happens I was.

Hunter was cheerful, not like some of the other dancers whose eyes had glazed over long ago from one too many bored, gyrating hip thrusts in the direction of wolf eyes. No, when Hunter got on stage she smiled almost to the point of laughter. She clearly loved to dance or maybe she simply enjoyed all the attention. She had long, brown wavy hair, a pixie nose, and hips that would have commanded lustful attention even at the Jamestown colony. Puritanical convention be damned.

It was the first time I had been to a strip club. From the stories I had heard, Portland seemed like a good place to see what all the fuss was about. And, try not to be shocked, but I was 35-years-old and it isn't a mystery why I waited so long to visit one. I was frightened. For starters, I was scared of trying something new and, for me, going into a strip club yielded a discomfort very similar to having sex for the first time. With that said, I worried more about what others would think of me. I worried they would believe I didn't respect women, that my blend of feminism had a backbone no stronger than the hard dick in my pants, which (let’s face it men) isn't very strong on its own. Like me, I know most of you dudes have hung a “heavy” bath towel from your penis just to see if it can also operate like a strong coat hook. Be that as it may, I seriously doubt you or I can carry the plight of women on our dicks. And, shamefully, so many men seem to think this. What’s more, despite the argument that sex work can sometimes be empowering for women or even a marker of feminism, I was still uncomfortable because of the respect question.

In the end, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I found myself listening to advice my father once gave me:  “Sometimes you just gotta put your dick in the wind.” His words often still resonate in my life. And, surprisingly, I was also listening to the advice of my partner at the time. She implored me to have fun because, as a woman who primarily identified as a lesbian, she understandably struggled to completely fulfill my needs. Love is quite strange sometimes, isn't it? But, all of that is quite another story.

I ended up enjoying my time at the Portland strip club. It was known for its “high contact” and Hunter did not belie this notion in the least. She put her boobs in my face and even spent some time “sitting” in my lap. She also whispered a lot of sweet nothings in my ear like, “You’re cute,” or “I love your hair,” or “Your tattoos are interesting.” We made a bit of small talk. We spoke about art. We talked about ballet, which I studied for a couple years as an adult. I had recognized a dance move she made, which was something like a rond de jambe en l’air. And if you know anything about ballet or French for that matter, then you’d know how sexy that would look, especially when executed by a stripper. I liked Hunter. She seemed stand-up. She was smart and confident.

Hunter asked several times that evening if I wanted a “real” dance, but I declined respectfully each time. Truth be told, I was too unnerved by the notion of a lap dance. Besides, having a naked woman sit in my lap, off-and-on, all evening was enough. Plus, I had frittered away all of my money on the stage. I said goodnight, wished her well, and left for my hotel.

Almost two years later and back home in Seattle, I visited my best friend Alex at the Hideout. She worked the bar for several years and had a deeply resounding presence there. Alex was that kind of bartender, warm and responsible, but also up for anything. I visited her often at the Hideout. She and many of the other folks there made it a safe watering hole.

It was the last Sunday of the month, which called for the style and grace of Ivan and his karaoke machine “Baby Ketten.” These Sundays were cacophonous! Many people waited with bated breath the entire month just to sing their favorite anthem at the Hideout.

The crowd was especially mirthful and debaucherous that evening. Alex, as she was wont to do, would briefly step away from her mixology duties and sing a song or two. And when she took the microphone in her hand she would always bashfully say, “Hi, this . . . this is my first time.” The people who knew Alex loved this comment and even waited for it. We all laughed heartily whenever she joked.

The folks were particularly talented that night. I recall some wonderful performances, but there was one gal who stood out. She had a voice that soared. It seemed belting out love ballads were no more difficult for her than drinking a glass of water. She hit every note just right, every time. This woman sang only a couple times really, but I found her quite interesting – in a confusing sort of way. You see, I thought I recognized her, but I simply couldn't place where I had previously seen her. The name Ivan used to call her to the stage didn't help at all. He’d yell, “It’s time for Kelly to come on up to the stage! Where’s Kelly!?” I’m pretty certain I shrugged my shoulders over her name while sipping bourbon.

Last call.

Then, the lights came on. The music stopped. Everyone squinted through the bright blur and shuffled out the door. As was customary, for Alex’s safety and my own, I stayed until the last patron had left. The last person, as you likely guessed, was the woman named Kelly. She closed out her bill and between writing the tip and signing her name she gave me a cheerful grin. I returned the smile, still unable to think of where I had met her. After she politely thanked Alex, Kelly walked right up to me, put her arms around me, and whispered in my ear.

She said, “You’re cute.”

Before I could say anything, she left my side and bolted out the door. I hollered after her, but she didn’t return. And, suddenly, it occurred to me why I didn't recognize her.

She was wearing clothes.

An Anniversary of Shaking Hands with Death

In the beginning, my brain bacterial infection had remained wholly inconspicuous. My body was keeping a secret, one that ironically rested directly on top of the single organ whose main job is to notice when things go wrong. I had no idea I would be shaking hands with Death in the coming weeks, an event that would summarily derail my old outlook on life and deliver me to a wiser, new beginning. As I said, the symptoms and their clandestine operations hid themselves from view. In fact, prior to my hospital stay in March of 2003, the only remarkable indicator of my waning health manifested itself only as a couple of extra nose colds, which I simply blamed on bad luck or not washing my hands enough during winter. In the end, the common cold wasn't the culprit at all. Instead, a far more insidious affliction worked inside of me, possibly stemming from something like Death carelessly sneezing in my face and then exclaiming how he couldn't be bothered with the formality of saying "Gesundheit."

And so, a lesion began growing in my head.

My affliction seemed to surprise everyone. Even the doctors were astonished; they called my situation "anomalous" or "unusual." It made no sense. An infection of this magnitude was largely inconsistent with my youthful constitution and lack of auto-immune disorders. My body, at 28 years, resembled prime health and lean strength. I rode my bike everywhere and if you know anything of the hills in Seattle, then it should be clear how sinewy my body looked. Also, try not to laugh, but the woman I dated back then even called me her "Adonis." And, realizing the hubris this must show, I find it pertinent to mention I believe most of us, especially in our younger years, had the bodies of Adonis and Aphrodite - or some version of beauty in between. And, not surprisingly, the beauty of youth slips away. Eleven years later, my supposed body of Adonis is now ornamented with multitudes of scars, burgeoning dark circles under my eyes, a former busted ankle that clicks all the time when I walk, a muscle tear in one shoulder, a slight bowling-ball belly that I suck in all the time, and . . . and a history of brain surgery.

Illness or affliction?

I prefer to call my brain event an affliction rather than an illness. The word "illness" would be accurate I suppose and it isn't a far cry from the definition of "affliction," but after reading the book "Mortality" by the
late renowned journalist, Christopher Hitchens, I changed my mind about using "illness" as a descriptor. In Hitchens' final book he details his decline in health and eventual death from esophageal cancer and he does it with unforgiving acuity, mindful wit, and relentless accuracy. It's a short, worthwhile read if you want to know more about the struggle of cancer and a hand shake with Death that, under the common propensity for hope, you would believe ends in an eventual recovery. Instead, the book displays several sentiments of life abruptly terminating with the grim reaper going in for a gentle, "there-there-everything-is-gonna-be-alright" hug while secretly wielding a scythe point behind the recipient's back.

And then, as any well-meaning atheist - like Christopher Hitchens - would say, you helplessly spiral into nothingness, never to return.

Getting to the point, I stopped using the word "illness" because Mr. Hitchens used it in his book. I don't feel justified using the same word he did, just because I happened to be lucky enough to have the grim reaper's hand reluctantly pull away from mine. What's more, it feels inappropriate to liken an illness such as stage-4 cancer with my brain bacterial abscess. Even though my affliction was most-assuredly dangerous and life-threatening, I had a significantly greater chance for survival compared to Christopher Hitchens and others with similar diagnoses.

At the mere mention of my left craniotomy, which I sometimes do with equal measures of hidden excitement and nonchalance, people invariably ask me how it all began, how I knew my health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse. Oftentimes, the short answer is that I don't know the precise moment. I woke up on the morning of March 16th, 2003 and I had no idea what the hell was wrong. I only had a hunch that something grave loomed over me.

It went something like this:

Pieces of my tongue chewed off.

Alone, I awoke, groggy and lightheaded, which doesn't seem all that unusual. But, to be more accurate, you ought to multiply your average morning grogginess by about 100, and then add the feeling of getting hit by a truck in the middle of a wicked hangover. I could barely deal with consciousness. My spine and all the muscles between my shoulder blades hurt like I had slept on the sharp edge of an axe blade. And somehow this pain extended through my body to my sternum, making it excruciating to breathe. The taste of iron filled my mouth and when I pressed my fingertips to my lips they came away wet with blood. My tongue throbbed with each pump of my heart and the sides felt as though I had sucked on a white-hot, u-shaped brand all night. A baby pacifier for Satan's offspring.

Deciding all these sensations were alien, I gathered myself from my bed with immense effort and walked to the bathroom. At first glance, I looked fine. Just tired. I stuck out my tongue in the mirror. Both sides were mangled and chewed-up. They looked like hamburger meat. To this day my tongue never regained its original shape. It has waves bitten into the flesh - all in the shape of my molars.

"That can't be good," I thought.

I wish I could say I thought nimbly to arrive at a plan of action, but, as you might know, brains are actually quite cumbersome after a supposed marathon of drinking and "making out" with speeding trucks. After several minutes, I finally decided to go to the hospital. At the time, Harborview Medical Center was only 4 blocks from where I lived. I called a friend and cancelled brunch. Plus, my work shift at Barnes & Noble would start later that afternoon. So, I called in sick, which wasn't met with the magnanimous support I was hoping for . . . because, at the time, I didn't like working for the chain bookstore. The corporate mentality often fell dreadfully short of showing actual human support for me and my dear co-workers. Plus, I was currently at arms with the store manager for her less-than-stellar business ethics . . . but my staunch refusal to follow poor leaders is quite another story.

Anyway, I seem to recall the assistant manager on the other line, trying to negotiate with me to still come in for work despite my, admittedly, vague symptoms. Her reaction to my ailment seemed heartfelt, albeit a tad misguided . . . probably because of the poor training she had received from the aforementioned cut-throat store manager. Clearly, the ambiguity of my affliction must have put the assistant manager in a tough position.

Nevertheless, I believe I replied, "I don't think you understand. Something is really wrong and I'm going to the hospital."

Barnes not so noble I guess.

I ate a snack, which I believe consisted of eating a handful of salty, tortilla chips and drinking a glass of milk. If I had known I was going to spend 12 days in the hospital, I would have eaten a larger breakfast. I got dressed slowly and deliberately. I had to think twice as much to execute something as simple as putting on a t-shirt. And carefully, around my injured tongue, I brushed my teeth - because, really, who in their right mind would show up to an emergency room without good oral hygiene?!

A long walk up 9th Avenue.

Two weeks prior to that morning, my health insurance card arrived in the mail. Outside of what my parents offered me as a child and a young man, I had never had health insurance on my own. On a whim, months previously, I had decided to take the resentful pay-cut from my meager Barnes & Noble paychecks so I could have health insurance. I cannot overstate the unbelievable foresight I had in this decision. I hadn't even yet removed the insurance card from the perforated envelope in which it had arrived. I tore it out, stuck it in my wallet, and began my walk to the hospital.

It's difficult to say how long it actually took me to get to the emergency room. It should have taken me no longer than, maybe, 5 minutes. There were several moments when it occurred to me I might have been standing still for a half an hour. My body would suddenly jerk into motion as if I had just woken up from a spontaneous onset of narcolepsy. At the time, because I had never smoked weed, I didn't know to liken it to the "time-loss" effects often experienced by folks who smoke the ganja.

I also recall the strain of each step. I experienced the sensation of forging a trail through a field of thick, wet cotton up to my chest. Because of the exertion and confusion, it was easily the third most difficult walk of my life, a short journey trumped only by two occasions when I carried coffins to graves.

Yeah, one foot in front of the other, like a stoned pall bearer.

When I finally arrived, the chaos of the emergency room only added to the haze. Like some hospitals, Harborview is widely known for its bizarre, almost schizophrenic, blend of cacophony and, because of my faulty memory some version of the following happened. An offensive morning news entertainment show wailed on one TV; the "actual" news screamed on the opposite wall. And, nearby, at least two potential patients spoke to imaginary friends. Another person, as if by a miracle - but probably from sedation - slept soundly draped through the armrests of three chairs. Other folks, with furrowed brows, paced back-and-forth, presumably worried about loved ones. Plus, one corner of the room resembled a frenzied day care with one woman scolding a handful of giggling, errant children throwing magazines across the room. And who could forget the creepy fella sitting on the linoleum floor with the thousand-mile stare and eyes so wide I thought I might fall into them and be forced to join him in oblivion.

One could safely say it was the kind of emergency room where everyone wants to talk to you . . . everyone, except the triage nurse.

So, I waited in line.

And . . . I waited.

Finally, the nurse waved me forward. I sat down in front of her and neatly placed my shiny, new insurance card on the counter between us. She was unimpressed, but took it anyway. While a copy machine clunked and whirred at the wall behind her station, an inquisition of my complaints ensued. I scrawled on forms and spoke at length about back hurting really bad and how I had chewed up my tongue. After describing these symptoms, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said she didn't know what was wrong with me. She then hastily pointed back toward the waiting room and asked me to take a seat. I did as I was told.

What occurred next is oddly very clear in my memory. I spotted an open seat made of olive green leather and silver, aluminum arms. It reclined slightly and I recall being thankful for this because it somewhat assuaged the pain in my spine. The chair faced perpendicular to one of the TVs, the one with the "actual" news. I looked up at it and saw a straight-faced newscaster reporting on the pending invasion of Iraq . . .

. . . and then I blacked out. No warning. Everything suddenly just went dark.

I could be wrong, but looking back on that moment, it occurs to me that this sudden loss of consciousness might be what it's like to die. One moment you're there, cognitive functions humming away, and then your brain goes COMPLETELY FUCKING BLANK. Think on that for a minute.

No, think on it for five minutes.

I dare you.

Imagine your moment of death as a certain measure of awareness and then . . . sudden emptiness, sudden nothingness. If that doesn't send shivers up your spine, then maybe you ought to carry a coffin or hold a hand at dying sometime. Hell, you could listen to bullets whizzing past your body. You can take on the weight of a serious diagnosis you never thought would be yours to hold. You can have your foot crammed between two logs in a riverbed and not be able to come up for air. In some way, you can shake hands with DEATH.

11 years later, I still occasionally relive the memory of going blank. It's deeply unsettling. There, in the waiting room, I had my second grand mal seizure of the day. Although, because of the brain crash, I didn't know it. The first grand mal woke me earlier that morning while I lay safely in bed. Any number of things could have gone wrong that morning. I might have been caught without health insurance. My seizure could have happened while riding my bike in traffic. Ugh, I could have been swimming! To this day and even though my last neurologist said, "You're in the clear," I still have to psych myself up to take a damn bath because I'm afraid I might seize and drown. And what about my second seizure? If it hadn't happened in the emergency room, I might still be waiting to see a doctor.

When I finally stopped shaking hands with Death, I regained consciousness and found myself lying on a gurney with a team of doctors screaming all around me . . . and what happened next is another story.

Your Lifeless Arm

This . . . is not a work of fiction.

A woman I once loved hit me in the face. She hit me as hard as she could. I could tell by how fast she leaped from her chair, by the way her arm muscles twitched, by the clenching of her jaw. I was sitting down when she struck me. The blow knocked the tunnel from my stretched ear lobe. Months later I found the tunnel in a paper sack she had hastily filled with some of my belongings. She must have found it on the floor of her kitchen. I decided I couldn't wear the earring anymore. So, I placed it in an envelope and labeled it "Left - the side she hit me." The right earring was useless without it's matching partner. So, it received a similar treatment, but that envelope simply read "Right." Speaking of my left ear, it rang in waves for three hours after she hit me. Also, it took two days for the redness and swelling to finally subside from my cheek.

Yes, she hit me that hard.

It was an open-handed slap, a description she often used in an attempt to mitigate the violence it actually represented. Through it all, however, violence is violence and one can't soften a physical blow by describing it with soft words. And yes, I know this momentary onslaught was not the worst anyone has ever endured, especially women. Be that as it may, my experience definitely exceeded the cutesy, poorly-deserved slaps across the face you see on television, in books and in the movies. This, as a storytelling cliché, infuriates me to no end because it perpetuates the idea it is acceptable for women to hit men in situations that don't call for it.

The actual chair from which she leaped.

To be clear, this wasn't the only time my ex physically attacked me. She pushed me to the floor of her apartment a couple times. Plus, in the worst times, she administered no shortage of emotional abuse. I could explain the details that gave rise to her abuse and violence. I could talk more about her infidelity and how she lied to me, but these details are really quite unnecessary and, frankly, they are entirely unimportant to me these days. Simply put, the only important thing to know is she took a shit on nearly every relationship agreement we ever made. What's more, I did nothing to warrant her physical or emotional abuse. I did not physically harm her or even threaten her. She wasn't defending her safety. In short, I simply called attention to her narcissistic facade, she lost control and she hit me - flat out.

No gruesome act followed. I did not restrain her or return the violence. I remained quiet as her breath heaved in my face. I was mostly in shock. It's not every day someone, who claims they love you, tries to smack a hole in your face. I recall the way one side of her nose scrunched up tight. How her nostrils flared. And how her blue eyes glowed as angry, frost-bitten orbs. Truly, the look on her face would have scared children. And, under closer consideration, I see this now as one likely explanation for the made-up stories of witches who live alone in a neglected house at the edge of every suburban neighborhood in America.

Yes, her face looked that frightening.

Thinking back on that moment, though, I suppose it could have turned ugly. I recall how, several months later while still suffering from blinding rage over her trespasses, I imagined myself exploding from my chair, grabbing her by the back of the head and smashing her pretty face into the kitchen counter repeatedly until I hyperventilated. I'm deeply ashamed I even thought this, but thank goodness for the difference between a misguided thought and one put into action. I take solace in that I did not become violent as she did. I did not lose control. I did not do what so many men do to women all over the world.

Staring in the face of her narcissistic rage, I stayed relatively calm and curtly said, "You shouldn't have done that."

My physical injury, of course, went away a lot faster than the emotional one. Such is the case when dealing with an abusive partner. In turn, I began having violent nightmares about her, ones where retribution for her violence played out. A couple dreams had her paralyzed from a broken neck. In another, I watched her take a stray bullet in the back of the head from somewhere outside her apartment window and, in my conscious mind, I can still hear the sound of her body hitting the floor; I can still see one of her eyeballs bursting into a fleshy mist when the bullet exited her socket.

I barely slept.

You would think these images would provide some sort of feeling of redemption. Instead, the nightmares crippled me for days. I walked around like a zombie, wide-eyed and reliving the imagery over and over again. I'd sometimes wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks and I'm pretty sure I yelled in my sleep a couple times.

Surrounded by the fear of constantly reliving my nightmares, I resolved to do something about it. A year or so after she hit me, I finally mustered up the courage to write down the dream I had most often. I hoped this treatment would help to flush it from my mind. I hoped to finally kill the thief who had stolen my sanity and my sleep.

The following is what I wrote that night:

I won't be able to scratch the images of your lifeless arm out of my head. Your screams. Your blood. Your loss. These images will stay with me for the rest of my life. They came in the constant nightmares I had after I left you.

This won't be easy . . .

The nightmare goes like this:

I recall thinking, over and over, about how none of this was supposed to happen while I was tied to a load-bearing post in a basement. The shadows were sharp and deep everywhere I looked. The musty smell of mold filled the air. I tried to swallow, but the gag in my mouth prevented it. I choked instead. My tongue tasted like rust. I concentrated on breathing through my nose. The left side of my face hurt. It felt swollen and a trail of something sticky stretched from an ear to my chest - definitely blood.

"Left - the side she hit me."

I blinked my eyes, adjusting to dim light. I heard a body shifting ahead of me. I concentrated through a blur.

And then I saw you.

You were facing away from me, draped over a large wooden barrel. It looked like you were hugging it. Ropes bound your wrists, which were tied off at two eye bolts mounted to the floor on either side of the barrel. You were face-down, but I could see your head bobbing up and down.

You whimpered. The weeping crushed my spirit. You sounded like a dying ghost.

I tried to call out to you, but the dirty rag in my mouth made me sound a thousand miles away. All of my efforts to reach you only made me choke again.

You finally noticed the noise I made. With great strain, you tried to turn your eyes toward me, but you couldn't. I won't soon forget the fear in your voice when you spoke. So broken with fear.

"Who's there?" you asked.

I mumbled through cloth, not making any sense.

"Speak to me, please," you continued, your voice rising and starting to sound like glass breaking in slow-motion.

I couldn't answer you. Whoever put the gag in my mouth knew what they were doing. They knew my words would have made sense to you. They knew my words would have comforted you.

"Speak to me!" you screamed finally, kicking your feet and trying to flail your body off the barrel. But it was no use. You could barely move. Your wrists were bound too tightly.

Tears streamed down my face. I could do nothing to help you. I strained against my own bondage and it didn't budge anymore than yours. I watched you, helpless, convulse over the barrel wracked with fear and grief. You cried so violently that your asthma kicked in and your sobs turned into desperate gulps for air.

I'm not sure why our assailant chose to gag only one of us. There is meaning in that, but I still don't know what it is.

A door suddenly opened at the top of some stairs. From above, a blade of light cut through the stale basement air. I saw specs of dust floating and I made every effort to think of them as frolicking stars - like the stars I recall from the beginning of our relationship.

A squat, pear-shaped figure stepped into the light, hands on hips. The figure issued a sigh that sounded irritated and something about it seemed familiar. I got the feeling I knew the person at the top of the stairs. It sounded like a woman. But who was it? She stepped down and closed the door behind her. The blade of warm light disappeared.

You looked up from your barrel to see the woman full on as she got closer to you.

"Mama?" you said suddenly in soft, hopeful voice. "Oh, mama! Help me! Please, help me!"

My eyes widened in complete disbelief. Your mother stood in front of you. Surely, we'd be saved, but how the fuck did she find us? She lived so far away. She was so far away, so distant from being truly available for most of your life. Her sudden presence seemed out of place.

You sobbed uncontrollably. Tears of relief.

"Help me," you said again with a whisper.

"Shut up!" your mother returned sharply.

A dreadful heat rose in my chest. Your mother was not there to save us.

Seeing I was awake, she walked over to me. Her eyes locked on mine and she grabbed my hair in a tiny, violent fist.

"Mama, what's going on? I don't understand. Get me outta here!"

Still holding my hair fast, she turned her head in your direction and yelled, "Shut up, you stupid girl! I said shut up!" I've heard that voice before; I remember your mother screaming at your step dad when we visited them. It was a lot like your voice . . . screaming at me.

She banged the back of my head against the post and I nearly passed out. And then she slapped me hard across the face. Her eyes lit up with malice while she wiped a bloody hand on her pants. My ear began ringing from the blow and I realized the source of the dried blood.

"You will watch," your mother suddenly said to me.

She turned away and walked over to a work bench lit by a small, teal-colored desk lamp. From the bench she grabbed a dirty hacksaw and walked back to you.

Your mom's breathing turned course, like she had broken, jagged concrete in her lungs. She palmed your chin with her free hand. Her eyes, severe and dangerous, pointed at you and her face contorted with derision.

"Oh, stop your crying, you little shit. Your crying is done! What did I always tell you? You only get to cry for so long and after that you're done. Your sadness is done. Turn it off now!"

She shoved your face from her palm and then knelt down next to you.

I watched in horror as she rested the blade of the hacksaw on your right arm.

Your body went rigid. You had just realized what was about to happen. Your own mother would separate you from your arm.

"Ma-mama, what're you doing?"

"Oh, shut up. It's time for you start seeing things correctly."

"Mama-stop-NO!"

You jerked in all directions to free yourself, but nothing worked.

Without warning, your mother drew the blade across your flesh below your shoulder.

You screamed. I'll never forget that sound. The blade was already deep and your mom continued to saw. I watched her labor change when she got to your bone. Blood poured in waves down the barrel. It pooled on the floor. My eyes reached for the back of my head, but I couldn't stop watching. You wailed and wailed. You sounded like a wild banshee being raped.

Mama's done saving your life.

Your mother gritted her teeth, getting through the bone.

You lost consciousness from the pain.

Your mother grunted, finishing the job.

When she was done, you fell asunder from the barrel to the floor, your arm on one side and the rest of you on the other. Blood squirted from your stump. You came to and the screaming started again. You tried to pull yourself away and I could hear your exposed bone clicking on the concrete floor. Your mother stood up and kicked you in the gut and then she re-positioned herself to punt your nose toward the back of your head. Your nose would be squashed and crooked for the rest of your life because of that kick.

"Quit squirming!" she yelled. "I need to tie off your arm! You have to live through this!"

She applied a tourniquet to your shoulder and the bleeding subsided. You vomited several times until they turned into dry heaves. I didn't blame you; I could barely keep the bile down in my own throat.

You looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. We were both crying. Wet diamonds from my eyes. Wet glass from yours. You had a strange look on your face - as if you were understanding me for the first time, like you finally understood what it meant to sacrifice.

When your mother was done saving your life, she walked over to me and without hesitation hit me upside the head with a 2 X 4. The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness was the image of you peering hopelessly at your dead arm on the floor nearby. You would never have that arm again. You will never drive a manual transmission again. Tying your shoes will be nearly impossible. You won't be able to put up your hair the way you like without paying someone to do it. Every bit of dancing you'll do for the rest of your life will be out of balance. Hugging friends will only be half as strong. And you won't be able to please a lover the same way you use to.

And I . . . I will never forget how you hit me.

The Six Reasons Why I Joined Ballet

Years ago, a wafer-thin catalog from the University of Washington Experimental College showed up in my mailbox. I found it crammed between the throngs of useless advertisement pamphlets and missing persons notices. I tossed out the ads - sorry, I don’t need space-age gutters and I most certainly do not need a half-price bikini wax . . .  and for the record, I don’t need a full-price one either. I studied the missing persons flyers and then recycled those too - sorry again, I unfortunately don’t recognize Joshua Hendersen's ten-year, age-enhanced photo. I wished I had. The catalog almost suffered the same fate as the others, but for some reason it clung to my hand. It apparently had the same adhesion properties as my unwanted bills.

The catalog of "fake" classes (otherwise known as "studies without credits") sat on my desk for a couple of weeks. It taunted me like a bully.

It said, “C'mon, you wimp . . . go on and take a class. Everybody’s doing it! Ya know, you can try yoga, welding or even underwater fucking basket weaving!”

To which I indignantly replied, “Fine, fine! Alright already! I’ll take a look . . . but may I remind you I’m just taking a gander!”

And the catalog said, “Whatever loser . . . oh, and while you’re at it look for a class that’ll make you stop using lame-sounding words like “gander.”

As I casually scanned the various curricula a few ideas leaped from the pages.

This is what legs look like
with biking and ballet.

Hmm . . . I've  been meaning to learn Japanese. I’d like to visit Japan one of these days, maybe to see the remnants of the Okinawa base on which my grandfather served during WWII, or perhaps it might be fun to ride the bullet train in Tokyo and I guess it can’t hurt to know the Japanese words for “condom,” “birth control pills” and “sexually transmitted diseases - as in, do you have any?”

Or . . . gosh, ya know, I’d like to improve my writing . . . maybe I should take a short fiction class. After all, writing is the one of the few callings that has been kicking and screaming my whole life. Perhaps it was time to give it a proper amount of effort. I suppose refining my language skills would be helpful in knowing more seductive ways to utter words such as “condom,” “birth control pills” and “sexually transmitted diseases - again . . . as in, do you have any?” This would really do wonders for masking the bullshit factor in dating.

And then, suddenly, there it was. A class that not only leaped off the page, but it was a class designed, in part, to teach leaping. Beginning Ballet for Adults.

A week after I started classes, I celebrated my 32^nd birthday and at my party my new friend, H, asked me what the hell was up with me taking ballet. I’m paraphrasing, but he said something like, “I don’t get it. You’re a dude with a mohawk and you’re wearing a Neurosis t-shirt. What gives?” We talked for a bit, but I never really got to finish explaining myself. H was kidnapped by some other friends and taken somewhere for one of those I’m-young-and-carefree-Tracy-Chapman-You-Got-a-Fast-Car midnight drives. I, on the other hand, was hosting my own party. So, I dashed away to attend to my guests. Now, to be clear, H wasn't the only one who has asked me to explain myself. So, why ballet?

Reason 1 - Stay Healthy:  As I said earlier, I had just turned 32. They say a person’s metabolism slows down in their thirties and I intended to suspend this harsh reality for as long as I could. My heredity suggests I will be honored by the eventual development of a bowling ball belly. Also, the demon known as heart disease has crept around in my family’s DNA for years, killing relatives. I already knew, because of the propensity of my genetics, the only weapons I had to fight this demon were eating better and exercising more. Last, I cycle everywhere and all the time, which gave rise to some unhappy hip injuries. Cross-training became very important to repair that damage and strengthen my hips. So, why not ballet?

My ballet slippers.

Reason 2 - Reinvention:  I’m generalizing, but what is one of the first things a woman does when she breaks up with someone? She gets a haircut. She does this to cater to the need to reinvent herself, to abandon her old self, the one who was with Joe or Max or Dave or Gayle or Jenny or fence post or whatever she's into. This desire to reinvent is clearly a move to re-establish a lost identity; it is a separation from who you once were with your ex. Also, they hope to magnify their attractiveness to other potential mates. And men, we do the SAME DAMN THING, albeit a little differently. Often, we men begin to workout, making yet another fruitless attempt to finally develop that six-pack. Ballet had become the perfect way to re-invent myself after a break-up. Shamefully, I didn't manage to acquire the six-pack, but that wasn't really the point.

Reason 3 – Congenital Interest:  This is not to be confused with genital interest. Although, I guess there’s nothing really wrong with that. What I’m really getting at is that I loved ballet and I still do. For whatever reason I believe I was hard-wired to enjoy this particular dance form. I admired it from afar for many years. . . even as a boy. The first time I saw a live ballet performance I was 12; I saw the Nutcracker on a field trip to Seattle. So, joining a ballet class wasn't really a far cry away from what I already appreciated.

Reason 4 – Grace Hiccups:  In life, the employment of grace is important. Okay, I’m gonna get a little serious now. A year previous to signing up for ballet, a woman betrayed me in ways that did nothing short of crushing my spirit. I’m reasonably tough-skinned, but even I have a limit to how many lies and cover-ups I can take from someone who I believe loves me. During that time I handled my behavior pretty well, save for a few grace hiccups that can be categorized as punching holes in walls and snooping through her stuff to find evidence of her amoral blunders (I found a lot). I later realized these hiccups didn't show much more grace than she did. In essence, I had lowered myself to her level. What does this have to do with ballet? Easy. There is no better way to fight clumsy behavior than with an art form designed specifically for grace.

Reason 5 - Eye Candy:  Listen, I’m not gonna lie and none of you were born yesterday; it sure is something else to get an eyeful of beautiful women in tights on a weekly basis. Oh the jumping up and down, the pretty smiles, the flexing of the seat muscles and the gracefully elongated necks. Blessed be mine eyes! If I had excluded this reason, then I’d be an awful big let down to evolutionists. Charles Darwin would surely turn over in his grave. Hell, he might even fucking pirouette!

Kiss your fear.

Reason 6 – Fuck You, Fear:  The most dynamic and the most important reason of all, standing even higher than beautiful round bums in tights, was the notion to confront fear. I cannot imagine myself living a life governed by cowardice and anxiety. I must admit, however, I occasionally slipped into these traps back then. Shit, I still do. Joining ballet choked the life out of my fears. Also, it kept the stories coming in, the stories I would one day tell my grandchildren. I want to go through life kissing my fears with an intimacy that beckons me to higher ground. Anything less would be irresponsible living. What's more, I had to get over the stigmas associated with being a man in ballet . . . that I was a wimp, that I was gay, that I wasn't a "real" man. Very quickly, I discovered that learning the positions and the actual dancing proved to be far more challenging than overcoming these stigmas. In fact, I recall having one day of anxiety about the gender and sexuality stereotypes, but after my first class they fell away without a fight, the disappeared in the warmth and encouragement I encountered. I was a dunderhead to have even considered the fears in the first place.

In the end, I learned a great deal about the dance form. Plus, my body and my mind got stronger. New and valuable ideas grew from my guts. And, truthfully, I had also managed to defy the assumption I had joined a ballet class just to get laid. Some of the more cheeky people I knew back then were disappointed by this fact. Others were grateful for it. With that said, I might have been pretty fucking stooopid if I hadn't acted on such an opportunity had it arisen respectfully. After all, Gloria Steinem is counting on me just as much as Charles Darwin, right?

An Anniversary of a Tiny Bucket of Blood

Not much occurred to me when I woke up from brain surgery. In fact, I had a hard time conceiving any thoughts at all. I couldn't say a single word, nor could I lift a finger. Let me say this again . . . because this is important to understand. Imagine for a second that you’re able to take in information, but you are completely unable to do anything with it. I couldn't produce action, let alone create an original, meaningful thought. I was just an observation machine, assaulted by stimuli without a single shred of ability to process it.

Remembering how I couldn't move or think.

In the late 1800’s an early psychologist, named Willhelm Wundt,  developed a method of observation that he called introspection. He believed our cognition rooted itself in a finite number of basic, immediate experiences. He was obsessed with pure observation that avoided the messiness of the context and metaphors we placed on them. For instance, if we saw a Granny Smith apple, we wouldn't observe it as an apple, but rather we would simply say we were experiencing a “sense of green” or “elements of curves,” or “a shininess with light reflecting off an oblong shape.”

To be clear, this was ALL I could do.

I remember laying on a gurney.

That was clear.

And then, they wheeled me into the intensive care unit, which was a blurred cacophony. But, even with all kinds of activity buzzing around, I could only flatly observe. I couldn't do anything with the information. It would simply enter my brain and then stop. It felt like my pre-frontal cortex, which is responsible for higher cognition, was completely detached from my animal brain. But, not even my animal brain could produce a mere fight or flight response.

For all intents and purposes, this should have scared the living shit out of me. My deep fears of paralysis and lobotomization should have swarmed through me, wracking my entire body with anxiety. But, like I said, I couldn't produce a thought with any real meaning. So, my inability to speak and move had no bearing whatsoever; I couldn't even attach my observations to emotion.

I don’t remember how long this disconnect lasted. I DO, however, remember floating in and out of consciousness. And all of this makes sense, considering the after-effects of the anesthesia. Oh, and also, I was fucking high as kite from morphine.

Finally, a few hours later . . . or a day later . . . or whenever later, my brain switched from Willhelm Wundt’s introspection to more normal cognition.

It went something like this: 

“Hmm . . . I’m observing a bunch of long, straight lines, moving in unison with a white orb. And the lines . . . the lines are kind of brown-ish. Ok. And also, there are two sort-of bug-like creatures hanging out next to each other on the white orb. Ok. Good. Got it.”

And, at this point, I’m still not quite processing all the information.

Clearly.

But, finally, I remember that I’m in a hospital.

“Riiiiight. Copy that. I’m in a hospital. Wait a minute? Why am I in a hospital again? Oh yeah! Brain surgery!”

My disjointed thinking continued.

“Alright, to summarize . . . I’m in a hospital. I just had brain surgery. Soooooooo . . . why is there a white orb flying above me next to my bed? And what are these strange brown lines? And, even more importantly, WHAT in the flying fuck are two bugs doing on a floating orb?!”

And then, I have the clearest and most mind-shattering thought of all . . . it’s abundantly clear that I am on DRUGS.

. . . and then . . . without fail . . . of course . . . the ORB starts talking to me!

The orb’s name was Hannah. I listened to her intently, processing all that she said to me at a capacity no greater than a jester in a court of dunderheads.

I managed to say my first words.

“Hello Hannah. I think . . . I think I’m on drugs.”

She laughed.

And then I think, “Wait a minute. Orbs don’t laugh. And why was this orb a woman?”

A woman!

Suddenly, my brain jump-started, kicked into overdrive, and I came to the full realization that the ORB IS A WOMAN’S FACE!

Of course . . . leave it up to the presence of a woman to sway ME back into consciousness.

The amalgamation of straight, brown lines was her beautiful hair, bordering the white skin of her cheeks and forehead. And what about the two errant bugs on the orb? They were horn-rimmed glasses perfectly placed over her eyes.

The two bug-like creatures just hanging out.

Hannah, my ICU nurse, was the first person I really remember after I got a window cut in my head. I have no clue if I saw members of my family, or my girlfriend, or anybody else before meeting Hannah. I just don’t remember.

She asked me a few questions. Ya know, the standard ones to find out if I’m lucid. And then, I think she asked a few more questions to assess my cognitive functions. She seemed satisfied.

That was good news. No brain damage.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m hungry.”

“Nope . . . no food. Not yet. Not until the morphine and anesthesia wear off. I don’t want you puking all over my shoes.”

She was wearing gorgeous, reddish-black clogs.

“Oh, but I’m starving,” I whined.

“I know, hun. You can have some Jell-O, here, in a bit. But, for now, just rest.”

“Alright.”

I closed my eyes and slept.

I hadn't eaten in nearly 24 hours. You see, as some of you know, patients are often starved 12 hours before surgery so they don’t end up ralphing in their intubation tube or all over the operating table. The reason I went 24 hours without food was credited to a cancellation of my first proposed surgery, which was a half a day earlier. It was cancelled because the attending brain surgeon had to suddenly operate on a victim of an awful car accident. When I learned this, I remember thinking of how lucky I was that my health was stable . . . relatively speaking. I was still in danger of losing my life because there was there was a damn lump in my head from a mysterious bacterial infection. But, honestly, in light of the car accident, it didn't bother me at all that I had just missed my opportunity to eat more food before I had to wait another 12 hours for my craniotomy.

Jell-O brains from my
10-year brainniversary party.

When I woke up again, a cup of cool water and a bowl of green Jell-O had appeared at my bedside. Hannah fed me. I was too weak to lift a damn spoon. I sipped the water through a straw. I dislike straws. I think they are a COMPLETE waste of plastic. With that said, it was pretty useful in that moment. On top of it all, I was deeply grateful to taste anything other than the plastic flavor left in my mouth from being throat-fucked by an intubator.

I pleaded for more food, but Hannah asked me to wait. She wanted to see if the water and Jell-O came back up. Not once, not even then, did I ever feel nauseous from morphine. And, unfortunately, considering the brain surgery and the five times I've been hit by cars, I was no stranger to morphine. So, I still have no idea what they were talking about in terms of these supposed adverse side-effects. But, clearly, my guts must be made of steel. I could probably eat a pig’s anus and not even flinch. Well, to be fair, I might have to fry it up first and put mustard on it.

Anyway, throughout the morning . . . um, afternoon . . . evening, Hannah and I spoke off and on, between her taking care of other patients. It took me a while, but I realized I had met her before. She was the sister of a friend’s friend. Actually, I remember that meeting quite clearly. It was at her house. And . . . I’m pretty sure I danced in front her solo to that Madonna song “Justify My Love” . . . but THAT’S another story.

Finally, Hannah came up to me and said, “Ok, it’s time.”

“Time for real food!” I said gleefully.

“No, not quite,” she said. “It’s actually time to pull out your tube.”

“My tube? What tube?”

“Um . . . so, they drilled a hole in the crown of your head and then they put a tube in it.”

“They did?” I said incredulously. “Why did they do that?”

“Well, your brain is swollen from the trauma of the operation. They needed to give you a bit of room. So, they drilled a hole in your head, put a tube in it, and ran one end of it into to a cup to drain off some brain fluid.”

“A cup? Where?”

“Oh, it’s over there,” Hannah said, weakly gesturing to somewhere next to my bed.

I tried to sit up and see it, but I couldn't.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“What? No, hold on a second. Let me get this straight. I-have a tube-IN-MY-HEAD?”

“Yep.”

“And-there’s a cup-of my brain fluid-right there?”

“Yep,” she said, nodding cheerfully.

“Let me see it."

“Oh, I’m not supposed to show patients their own blood and stuff. It’s not a good idea.”

“The hell it isn't. It’s MY brain blood. I made it. I wanna see it!”

Hannah realized right way I wasn't going to budge.

“Ok, but you have to promise me you won’t vomit.”

“I promise. I’m good with blood.”

Hannah smiled and reached down where the tube slithered past one of the pillows supporting me. When she raised her hand again a plastic cup, a little bigger than a shot glass, came into view. It was plumb full of the thickest blood I had ever seen. I won’t soon forget how it cascaded downward in subtle, soft waves, much like a recently poured Guinness does in a pint glass. The only difference was that it looked more like a tiny bucket of blood.

“Now are you ready?” Hannah asked.

A "brain blood" shot from my 10-year
brainniversary party.

“Yeah,” I answered.

Hannah put the cup down and took a position behind my head. She explained how I wouldn't feel the tube coming out because there are no nerve endings in my head or on my brain. She said all I might feel is a slight tug as it passes through my skin where it entered.

I braced myself for what would probably be one of the weirdest sensations of my life.

And then she pulled.

I felt the tug and nothing else.

But I didn't feel just the tug alone. It felt a little bit like something else. Ya know, a little like how it feels when you’re picking your nose and you get that one booger that’s connected to a string of snot high up in your nasal cavity. And then, when you pull it all the way out and your snot is hanging from the tip of your finger like a suspended drip of swamp water, you get one of the best feelings of satisfaction!

THAT’S EXACTLY what it felt like to get that tube pulled out of my head.

A tiny seepage of blood dribbled down the back of my head and Hannah sopped it up with a bit of gauze. She plugged the hole with more gauze and a strip of medicine tape.

“Ok?” she asked.

“Yup, but still hungry."

“Ok then, I’ll take your brain blood away and bring back some food.”

Hannah gathered up the tube and cup and started to walk away.

“Hold on,” I said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“I’m wondering if you could tell me something.”

“What's that?”

"I'm wondering - well, I think I've come down off the morphine now, but I'm wondering if I'm seeing things clearly. Could you tell me . . . is there any bullshit in that cup?"