Eleven Days

XI

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

-T.S. Eliot The Hollow Men



Eleven Days until I lie down and act brave,
in a disinfected field of sterilized steel
with clean, blue veils about me arrayed.
A field where Angels wear masks and latex gloves;
Oh yes, and head-to-toe, skyblue scrubs.
And when Death shows up, ready to flip his grim coin,
my Spirit will jump up and kick him square in the groin.

Forgive me the occasional doggerel; the traditional spelling of my name is Don and I have always taken a secret pleasure from its inclusion in the word Sardonic.

Once Dr Green has opened my head (a fact I incessantly slam into like an invisible brick wall) and parted the visceral waters, he will sew a dura patch into place. This will relieve the pressure and crowding.
There are two kinds of material to use as a patch: cadaver or bovine.
And you don’t get a choice; it all depends on the neurosurgeon. I was fairly clear of my own preference…dead person or dead cow, not much of a decision really. I found out that Dr. G uses cadaver dura and suddenly I had a brief thundercloud of anxiety. It wasn’t squeamishness that gave me pause, if we were talking about some other organ I would not hesitate…but this is my brain we’re talking about, my sentient sponge, my cerebellar carburetor, the Bonehouse of my mind.

Then a memory rose up and demanded that I look at this from the outside in.
On September 2nd, 1996, my father Red McKenzie died. If I were required to be technical I would have to say that he was my adopted father, but the truth is that he was my Dad.
As it should be, my family will infuse this journal more and more as we get closer to It, for I love them, and this journal is motivated by what really matters to me... so a note on my family: I consider myself to be among the luckiest; being adopted and blessed to know my blood family, I am a link between two wonderful families. And while I have a father that I love fiercely, I also have a Dad, a man whom I miss every day. And that same fortunate duality includes my Moms and Grandmothers, my Siblings, Aunts, Uncles…you get the point.

Dad died suddenly of a heart attack. He was on his way to a poker game, which means he was happy in that moment at least. He was an organ donor and his eyes and long bones went to someone who needed them. A piece of my Dad lives still, enriching the life of people I will never knowingly meet. And now I will be the one given a new chance. It is not that I feel I am a selfish person, but it is so easy to lose hold of epiphanies—
I want always to remember that I have a choice, every day, to be worthy of this gift.

We pause now for my allotment of whining:
On November 1st Dr. Manwiller, my GP, removed a pesky reoccurring cyst that was about two inches from Ground Zero of my Untethering surgery. Though the incision doesn’t really hurt, it only took four stitches and Doc was deft with the scalpel; alas the resection seriously inflamed the occipital neuralgia (read that as Terrible Fucking Pain) that plagues my neck and spine, a symptom of the Chiari. And it will not stop. I’m told that pain is comparable to a body’s Check Engine light. Someone should take this up with whoever did our wiring, because it sucks. They should be pistol-whipped.

There is no doubt that I am dancing around my fear tonight. Babbling might be a better word. Back in August, Dr. Green looked me in the eye and told me the truth. Despite a positive attitude, rallying to stay healthy, and every precaution I know they will take, I could still die on the operating table.
There is about a 1% chance.
Every day thousands take the same chance and live. My sister, who I deeply respect and admire, walked that gauntlet and lives to dazzle us all.

Yet, you see, this is my life.
And there is a 1% chance that I will die in eleven days.
Frank wrote, Face your fears or they will climb your back.
Tonight, facing the fear I pray,
“Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom…
…Behaving as the wind behaves, no nearer—"

—End Transmission—
Dawn McKenzie