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| My beloved Astrodome during Rodeo |
January 6th isn't necessarily a difficult day for me, but it is a memorable one. Just five years ago, on the 7th day in the hospital with the trump virus, my doctor stopped by to inform me that he thought I was well enough to go home. What a relief. I call it the trump virus because he did so little to protect Americans, cum the world, from such a vicious illness. I figured if he could call COVID the China virus, I could call it the trump virus. Only seems fitting, finding out first hand what a vile illness that was. (Not sure of which I speak.)
I thought I would die in that hospital, as many around me did. I'd hear the nurses talk outside my door about who had died the night before. Twice in rooms that neighbored mine. The second time was complete with a discussion on when they could use the room for the next patient—not until the afternoon, because they were backed up downstairs, so the patient was still lying in state in room next to mine. And then her replacement moaned and cried for help all night long.
What led me to the hospital stay was my second visit to the ER. The first time I was sent home only because I didn't need to be ventilated. I could hardly breathe, my chest hurt with double pneumonia, I couldn't smell a thing when inhaling deep from the container of ground coffee next to my Keurig. As much as I enjoy coffee, I hate the smell of coffee beans. As I struggled from the examination table to my feet, I whimpered, "OK, then I'll go home to die." I later regretted saying that. It wasn't the nurse's fault, and I hope she can know that in the end, I didn't die.
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| Barely alive in hospital |
There are many things I don't recall from the days following my first ER visit; like what I did when I got home. Probably passed out from the struggle of walking into my home. I don't recall driving myself to the hospital the second time. I do recall being turned away from the main entrance and forced to walk around the block to the ER entrance. I remember thinking I was about to pass out and wondered how long I'd lie in the grass before being discovered. I don't recall checking in, but I do remember being wheeled to my hospital room. I remember how shaky I was, how concerned everyone was about my state of health, and how kind the doctor and nurses were to me. Thinking back, it was a wonderful gift to give a patient who may not see the next day.
So on day seven, that kind doctor said he thought I was well enough to go home. He'd requested I be released with a home oxygen system, which I stayed on for at least a month. I was so excited to see my cats, thinking I'd never see them again. I remember the night before going to the ER that second time, standing in my bedroom, unable to inhale because the pain was so bad, crying, wishing to die, knees going weak, looking for the best way to fall when I passed out, and seeing all three of my cats in different corners watching me like children seeing their father go off to war.
The first thing I asked the nurse the following morning—day 8—was if she knew when I could go home. I'd see that question all day go unanswered. For the first time since I entered that room I turned on the television. The news reports from Georgia's run-off election kept getting interrupted by the crowd gathering at the capitol in DC. By the crowd growing in size and in frustration in how the counting of electoral ballots wasn't going their way. By the crowd rushing the steps and climbing the walls. By the crowd then breaking into the United States Capitol building. It was the first time I'd cried for something other than my pain in a month. Perhaps yet since Mom died that previous March.
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| A month later still on oxygen |
So much was my anticipation in going home, I missed dinner. When hearing the dining room had closed, a nurse brought me a sandwich from Subway. "I can't eat a whole sandwich," I told her. "Please take the other half." She left me the cookie and earned a place in heart, along with the other wonderful nurses, doctors and friends who had given me encouragement since falling ill early December. She refused my attempt to pay her.
After eating half the sandwich given to me, I fell asleep. The night nurse woke me, "It's time to go home. I'm here to help gather your things." I smiled at her. "I don't have much," I said. Since I drove myself to the hospital, and had no one to pick me up, I also drove myself home. The attendant had fun wheeling me all over looking for my car. And just like getting there, I have no memory of driving home. Had it not been 11PM in a world still mostly devoid of unnecessary traffic thanks to the covid shut down, I would not have attempted it. But I was a desperate man.
Seeing my cats again gave me such joy that I nearly fell dead to the ground in my living room. Their boxes needed to be emptied and the effort it took to clean them required a break in between. When getting ready for bed I fell, grabbing my night stand and causing it to roll completely upside down. I wasn't hurt. And as my shallow breaths slowed to normal, pulling the sheets up to my chin, I thought back on the day. January 6, 2021 was one of the longest days of my life. It was nearly January 7th before I got home. And I had watched an insurrection against my beloved country by my own countrymen live on television. How could my heart rise at being home and so crushed at the same time? The body is truly amazing.
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| My fur babies, Cusco, Miss Ellie, and Winona |
It was nearly three months before I was able to drive. The book I'd been working on before falling ill was now impossible to finish because I was unable to type. Had I been able to, my concentration was shot. The fatigue was so bad that I slept much of the time, just like my cats, who stuck by my side to help me recover.
Recovery took four years. The brain fog never left, the dizzy spells, the phantom smells, seeing things in my periphery, unable to concentrate on what was being said to me. I was ineffectual in speaking the words that came to my brain because of some weird filter just inside my mouth that had me stuttering and slurring words like an afternoon drunkard trying to find his way home.
In the months after hospital, I was still shaky, and so easily distracted that I was becoming a danger to myself at home. A doctor suggested I consider admitting myself to an after care center, but I soon found a friend who needed a place to live as much as I needed assistance. The recovery was slow, but with encouragement from friends and family and my desire to get back to the career I love so much, I fought my way back.
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| Back where I belong, to a career I cherish |
After nearly giving up on life, unable to write or return to flying, things began to turn around in the summer of 2024. By that October I was back in the skies, happier than I've ever been in my life. I'd beat the trump virus. I'd heard people die in the hospital. I'd lost neighbors and family. I saw the entire world shut down the week my mother died. And witnessed the first insurrection that our once proud nation has endured.
Like my illness, it was but a misstep. The USA will survive just as I have. It will recover. It will be stronger and happier than ever. I lost 100 pounds in the year after January 6, 2021. The world will eventually lose the obscene weight of an ego maniacal, bigoted, misogynistic, fake, loser of president- a convicted sex offender on top of being found guilty on all 34 charges of corruption, and likely just as guilty of pedophilia. We really need to tighten up our constitution so we never see another criminal enterprise brainwash half the country into an actual political cult.
But five years later, I'm flying. I'm happy. I'm spending quality time with my sweet gato-kitties, seeing the world, drinking good wine, visiting with friends and family, riding roller coasters, and writing again. The fatigue still keeps watch over me, but I do what I can, the best I can, to curse it away. We may have seen an insurrection on January 6th, but I won an insurrection against the trump virus that same day. Maybe it's fitting that this date in history is both beautiful to me, and vile at the same time.
If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at www.penguinscott.com
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