Here’s To A Year

Comments Off on Here’s To A Year
November 2nd, 2011

Yet another year’s gone by and I still haven’t learned the difference between buffalo and bison, bisque and chowder, the EU and the EC, or Rimsky-Korsakov and a Sikorsky or Kalashnikov. But I can certainly tell the difference between the me, now and the me who left the hospital 365 days ago as a new […]

Yet another year’s gone by and I still haven’t learned the difference between buffalo and bison, bisque and chowder, the EU and the EC, or Rimsky-Korsakov and a Sikorsky or Kalashnikov.

But I can certainly tell the difference between the me, now and the me who left the hospital 365 days ago as a new man, literally. My marrow wasn’t my own nor was my blood type the same. I used to be A positive, now I’m O positive. Or vice versa, I’m not positive. I’ll text my brother and ask what type we are. It’s his marrow and blood after all. He should keep track of this stuff.

“Budweiser,” is his answer.

When I made it home last year I was hooked up to an IV in our living room for four hours a day. My wife and daughters had to steel themselves over to connect and disconnect me from the tubes. I took a zillion drugs, felt crappy and wasn’t looking forward to a winter of discontent. I’m still not looking forward to winter, but I thankfully am looking at a lot of that previous life in the rearview mirror.

Sure, I’m still on nine different pills per day and that wacky fight between my brother’s marrow and my own still rages on, (battlegrounds currently include, in no particular order; my fingernails, my mouth, my eyes and my hair — or lack thereof). I’m told this is a good sign. I have pluck, they say. I’d prefer a Cold War personally, one without Sikorsky-Kalashnikovs.

But I’m looking forward to the future, as opposed to fearing it just a little. Yes, Eckhart Tolle would probably sucker punch me if he knew I wasn’t living in the Now. One of my many doctors told me yesterday that I’ve been through so much, the least she could do was alter my medicine a bit to make it easier. I responded that others have had it much worse than me, trying to sound cavalier. When she softly replied, “yes, but your struggle has been amazingly tough,” I thought the dam was going to burst.

I like to forget the insanity I went through. I like to play make-believe and imagine myself as an ordinary, albeit unemployed, citizen of Metro Detroit. Then I look at Mr. Puffy Face in the mirror and do my best not to cringe. That too shall pass.

https://readthespirit.com/rodney-curtis/wp-content/uploads/sites/14/2013/03/wpid-rcSiri.jpgphoto illustration with apologies by Rodney CurtisWhen I originally entered the hospital a year and a half ago, I used my incarceration as an excuse to buy an iPad. Now for my re-birth day, I’ve snapped up one of those fancy new iPhones. I’ve used it to find out that bison doesn’t work in a bisque and that Buffalo isn’t part of the EU.

But we have a steep learning curve, Siri and I. For those of you who don’t know, Siri is my phone’s voice assistant with attitude. Instead of using my proper email address, [email protected], Siri called me That Rodney Gut. I guess she thinks I should work on my weight.

But she did get something right. She called me the Spiritual Wonderbar, bastardizing German and English in one fell swoop. I like it. I think she’s on to something. I’m lucky; she could have just as easily referred to me as the Spiritual Wonderbra.

I probably couldn’t get away with blaming my brother’s blood for that. And I’ll bet Queen Victoria’s secret wasn’t that she was a dude with a small chest. I’ll see what Siri has to say on the matter.

Comments are closed.