falling down...getting up

12:04 AM Monday morning. My eyes are blurry and unfocussed. My hands are shaking and I have to watch my fingers carefully so I can type the correct letters. I can’t stop my leg from bouncing up and down. If I do I don’t think I’ll be able to feel where I am.

It’s been three weeks since the surgery and my left foot is still numb. If I’m not wearing shoes it’s not so bad, but when I do it hurts. Walking is very strange. I use a cane because my right leg is weak and can give out at random moments whenever it feels like it. Combine that with a numb left foot and the constant vertigo and balance becomes a fleeting memory.

I bounce around from thought to thought starving for concentration. Having a conversation with someone is like trying to snatch one solitary voice out of a stadium crammed full of rioting people.

My heart went back out of rhythm two days ago. I felt like I was dying. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, my eyes refused to stay open. I couldn’t sleep but I wasn’t awake either. Stuck somewhere in between watching the hint of orange light from the window glowing through my eyelids.

When I woke up the next morning the steady beat was back. But none of my strength came with it. I used to be strong. Not linebacker strong, but I could open any jar and throw my kids high in the air into the pool. Now I can barely pull my socks off before going to bed.

It’s a cliché, but I’ve become a shadow of my former self. Sometimes I think I’m going to wake up from a bad dream. No such luck. I love to blame all of my health problems on genetic misfortune out of anyone’s control. I have to stop doing that. Now. If I want to get better I need to take responsibility for some of this predicament.

I mean the M.S. was not something that I could predict or prevent, at least as far as the medical profession can tell. Part of my heart problem is probably genetic. My father has a heart murmur and we have family members who died from heart attacks. But I spent years of my life not taking care of myself. I smoked, stopped exercising because I was lazy and ate like a fool for way too long.

Now I need to change that way of being. I need to care enough about myself to take care of myself. Whatever that means. Food, exercise, yoga, and transcendental meditation…I don’t know yet. I’m trying to figure it all out.

I am fortunate to have a great group of people who do care about me though. Being new in this small town has really opened my eyes. The neighbors who live behind us come over every day around lunchtime to check in on me and take Sadie for a walk. People call throughout the day to say hello and make sure I’m still answering the phone.

Last week I went on my first outing from the house since the surgery. We went to a local Holiday Bazaar and Penny Social where I bumped into quite a few people who hugged me and said, “It’s so wonderful to see you up and about.” I can honestly say that I didn’t know who most of them were. But they knew who I was and were sending out positive thoughts for my recovery. Definitely not something I am used to. But it feels really, really nice.

Sometimes it takes the affection of strangers to make you feel like you’re worth something. That’s why being on stage can be so addictive. You can get used to the people who are regularly in your life and take their expressions of love for granted. They blend with the voices in your head and sound the same as your own thoughts. That can be misleading when you lie to yourself all the time like me.

That’s my highest hurdle to leap. Being honest with myself. Not just being good to myself when others are around. Taking care of myself not only with what I put in my body, but with the thoughts I allow in my head. Recognizing that when someone says to me, “I love you”, they actually mean it. They are going out on a limb to express the way they feel. I need to hang with them on that precarious perch, believe what they say and accept that I am worthy of their caring.

Allowing myself to love myself should not be considered as arrogance. It is a necessity for healing. It is the main tool in paving the way for living happily. I don’t mean to say that I should find myself infallible. I will always make mistakes. I will continue to struggle with disappointing myself. The trick I think is to love myself regardless and accept the reality that I am human and can’t always live up to my own expectations. And that should be okay.

So what if I didn’t make the cover of Modern Drummer by the time I was eighteen years old. So what if I didn’t sell millions of records and win a truckload of Grammys. That shouldn’t be the bar by which I judge myself a successful and good person. It’s been that foolish thinking that made me treat myself so badly for so long. I don’t want to do that anymore.

All I know is when I woke up in the hospital and watched my wife sleeping on the couch across the room my main thought was that I never want to put her through this again. She showed me a picture that she took with her cell phone of me lying there looking like a sleeping alien. It seemed like there were a thousand tubes and wires going in and out of my body. As physically difficult as it was, I had the easy part. I got to sleep through most of it. Sure there was physical pain. That dissipates while the scabs and scars eventually heal and fade to tiny pink reminders. The mental wounds stick around. Memories remain fresh much, much longer.

If it means battling the voices in my head that have been repeating the same sick shit for decades I will do it. If it means challenging my instincts and trusting that the love of my family and friends is real I will do it. I will not allow myself to get that close to the edge again if I can help it.

By no means will it be easy. There will be slip-ups and fallbacks. So I will leave reminders for myself around this studio along with all of the other inspirational quotes and images I have posted on the walls. I will read them every day so I don’t forget. And for starters I’ll have a handful of baby carrots and work on re-building my strength. Hopefully In the next week or so when my neighbor comes over to take the dog for a walk I can walk with them.

My wife will probably kick my ass for taking so long to figure this all out. But better late than never I guess. Right?

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intubated

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*thought
“what the…”

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*thought
“can’tbreathe”

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-coughcoughcoughcoughcoughchokestrugglecoughchoke choking-

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-coughcoughchokefightcoughfightfightcoughcan’tbreathefightordiefightnodie-
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-coughchokefightnodienodienodienodiehcan’tmovemyhandscoughcoughgag-

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-coughfightcoughcoughgaggagfightfightfight
“Shh. Honey it’s okay. Shh. Stop fighting us. We’re trying to take care of you.”
stopsharpplasticthingopensbringsmorselofairintolungs. notenoughnotenough not enough
closespushingairout
coughchokechoughcoughfightfightfightfightfioght-

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-strugglecoughpulltuggagcoughcough_
“Please calm down Alex. It’s going to be okay.”
-coughfightnodieneedairneedairneedair-
“Shh. I love you.”
Her hand rubs back and forth on my thigh. I focus on her fingers, the touch of her skin calms. I let the air pumped into my lungs give me a small taste of breath. Then it closes blowing my relief away whether I want it or not. Why is it so little? Why don’t they give me more? gagcoughfightineedmoreairgetthisthingOUTOFME!
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Voices. I don’t know them. What are they saying? Overlapping whispers. Confusion. One confident pulls order from the chaos. Hands pull around my head. Sharpness stings my arm.
“…he’s waking up”“…this here”“…slide”
then I hear through the din and drowning “…find something to make him gag”

WHAT? REALLY?

Cold stings my mouth. No air. Fading away. Thin next to thick pushing. Gagcoughchokegagcoughchokepushfightpushpushpulledpulledulledgagcoughcoughchoke

free.

Air.

My lungs gulp down the blessed air. I can swallow. I scream something I have never known or understood in my life. Hands pat my chest. There is laughter.
Her fingers rub my thigh.
“You did it. Just relax. I love you. I love you so much!”
I breathe.

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-

 


In the pre-op room surgery there is a cold, nervous energy that I don’t think exists anywhere else in the world. The nurses are smiling, doctors and patients make small talk and little jokes with each other as they fill out the final bits and pieces of paperwork and release forms the lawyers require before the cutting begins. No one holds eye contact for very long unless it’s a necessary test for reflexes or pupil dilation.

I tell a dumb joke and the entire room lights up with laughter. I’d love to think that I really am this funny, but I know it’s just the buzz of anticipatory electricity flowing through the room. Plus I see my wife shaking her head at the dork she married. It’s typical of me to make fart jokes when I’m half-naked wearing a surgical gown in a room full of strangers.

“Have you been shaved yet?” One of the nurses asks.

“Umm…not that I recall.” Obviously a nervous answer from me.

“Well, we need to take care of that before we go on any further.” She says and pushes out from the curtained area.

A few minutes later the curtain slides open again revealing a large man with a clean, shiny head, a sterile sealed razor raised high in his hand and a huge toothy smile on his face. “My name is Fancois. I’m here to shave you.”

Melissa claps her hands, “Oh goodie! Can I stay for this?”

“Sure, sure.” He says opening the seal on the battery-operated razor. I laugh nervously. As he lifts up my gown I start thinking about shrinkage for some reason.

“Now let’s keep him Jewish.” Melissa jokes. They both laugh hard and I cross my legs out of reflex. “Hey hon, it’s okay. He’s a professional.”

“Yes sir. Just relax.” Francois pats me on the ankle. “Just the leaves. Not the branch.” This of course starts of another bought of laughter making me even more self-conscious.

Francois eventually completes his task and tucks me back in under the warm, pre-heated blanket. A few moments later my anesthesiologist comes in and I have to suppress a laugh of my own. He tells me his name and title and starts checking off his list of questions before he can officially begin to administer any medication. I answer as best I can all the while hoping he can do his job much better than his look-a-like.

This Guy.





Now that his checklist is complete and the IV needle has been put into my hand, we’re getting ready to go. My OR nurse comes in to introduce himself and I have to hold back another laugh. Just so you know, one of my best friends for the last twenty years is named Jim. He is one of the most intelligent, witty and caring people I know. But if you didn’t know him, he like me, probably doesn’t have the most comforting appearance for a surgical nurse.



(Love ya Jim!)

He introduces himself and we talk a little bit about the procedure and what’s to come. I tell him that I am a pacifist, but when I wake up from anesthesia I am very loud and unfriendly. He tells me that he has three sons that he has coached in hockey and he can handle me if he has to.

For some reason this does not make me feel better.

At this point he says they are ready to take me in. They give Melissa and I a few moments of private time where we kiss and hug and cry and hold hands and say “I love you.” Over and over and over again. Still, it doesn’t seem like we have said it enough when I’m rolling down the hallway away from her.

After rounding a few corners we pull through two large double doors. The flashing lights, beeping machines and large flat-screen monitors make me think of Star Trek. There are five or six other people in scrubs milling around the room checking on things and getting this contraption connected to that who-sa-whatsit.

“I guess that’s where the pictures of my innards are gonna go huh?” I point to one of the monitors.

“Yup. Right there.” My nurse rolls me next to another table and pats his hand for me to “hop” over. I lift up on to my elbows and push myself over as far as I can. Then I fart. “Excuse me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” No one seems to notice. “You’ll be doing that a lot over the next few hours anyway. Now I need you to lift yourself up again. Try not to hit your head on the head hitter thingy.” He places his hand on my lower back and helps me lean up. Of course my head hits the “head hitter thingy”.

“Ouch.”

“Warned ya.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“So what do you do Mr. Kimmell?”

“Call me Alex.” I lay back down on the hard table. “I’m a musician and a writer.”

“Really? The last guy we just worked on was a musician too wasn’t he?” Several voices make affirmative sounds. I see the anesthesiologist out of the corner of my eye.

“How are you Mr. Kimmell?”

“Super duper. How’s by you?”

“We’re all set here.” He pats the back of my hand. “I’ve just given you something to help you sleep Mr. Kimmell.”

“Call me A…”

-

While there are many more moments I could share from my time in the hospital, I think I’ll save them for later. The most important thing is that the good folks over at Brigham Women and Children’s Hospital saved my life. My wife stood guard over me in ways that I cannot fully comprehend. She has more strength than ten thousand Spartan Armies plus two. I was unconscious or otherwise unavailable through much of what she had to witness and help steer me through. For that (and many, many other tings) I will be eternally devoted and grateful to her. Somehow through all of it, she somehow retained her wonderful sense of humor. Thus I will leave you with this one last memory of our hospital adventure.

“Catheters suck.” I said while shifting positions trying to find a comfortable angle.

“Actually, they drain.”

And… scene.

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