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.