I'm Not Dead... Yet! (26 page)

I could still taste the migraine as I was ‘prepped.’ My inhibitions began to shed like the hair of a Golden Retriever on a suede sofa. I went from a private prude to an unwilling exhibitionist in a matter of minutes. Every part of my torso and groin were dry shaved with a Bic disposable razor by a male nurse who never spoke a single word to me, no matter what I said to him. Then he used a sandpaper-like substance to get the top layer of skin off my body. He rubbed and rubbed. The friction was irritating. Then he painted my torso and groin with cold Betadine. He pulled up my hospital gown and placed a Foley Catheter in my penis.

“Not even a kiss ‘Hello’?” I joked.

No laugh. No smile!

“Gimme your arm,” he said flatly.

He grabbed my arm, treating me like I was already anesthetized, flipped it over in a way that hurt, but I didn’t want to show it (I didn’t want to frighten Karla), and then he decided to put an I.V. into the top of my hand, just above the wrist. Pow. Done. Ow. None of this felt… good or pleasant and his company didn’t help. Karla’s deep concern only made me pretend that everything was ‘A-okay.’ What a sham.

Two other men in hospital garb pushed a gurney into the room.

“Let’s get you over onto this gurney, Mr. Benson.”

Suddenly, all I could think about was the hysterical student doctor from the night before telling me to “Run!” And that made me… calm. Because it was
funny
.

Keeping things light, I said, “I’m not the kidney transplant. I’m the open-heart aortic valve replacement.”

“Your date of birth?” the unamused nurse asked me.

“One, twenty-one, fifty-six.”

He looked at his paperwork. “Open-heart,” he nodded.

Whoa—he took me seriously. And then—off I went.

“Wait!” I said in falsetto. I then deepened my voice, “I want to kiss my wife.”

Karla looked into my eyes, kissed me, held my hand, and if ever I knew how lucky I was to spend my life with her, it was at that precise moment—except I wish she had chosen to hold the hand without the I.V. in it.

Energy passed through her and into me. Strength. Courage. Which reminded me of
The Wizard of Oz
and the beautifully written line that Professor Marvel tells to the Tin Man: “a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” I looked at Karla. She loved me. How did that happen? I was not in the habit of ‘Thanking God,’ but I remember as I was being wheeled away that I thanked God for loving and being loved by Karla.

I would not let her down. Not her, or my mom and dad, my sister, my baby girl, or Vivienne—most of whom were already waiting in the visitors’ lounge.

It was October 31st. Halloween.

Could I awaken from surgery and say ‘Trick or Treat!’ to my family as my first words? Could I assure them with those words—a pedestrian, gimmicky joke—that they had nothing to worry about? The only way I knew how was to focus and
visualize
, the same way I used to learn my lines; I would rehearse long monologues in my sleep. And when I would awaken, voila! I would know my lines backwards and forwards. Could I possibly do this with induced sleep? Could I accomplish this through all of the chemicals given to me for open-heart surgery? Well, I thought, ‘I’ll try.’

‘Trick-or-treat. Trick-or-treat.’ Don’t forget! Black and orange. ‘Trick or treat!’ I thought, over and over and over again.

I was wheeled into the elevator and people in street clothes looked at me as if I were already dead. The passengers did everything they could to avoid eye contact. I searched their faces, but no one returned my gaze. There was a stale smell, like garbage was transported in this elevator—along with dead bodies—and clothes that stank of their owners having a smoke outside, thirty seconds ago.

Then I was wheeled into the operating room. What a contrast. The smells were now completely different; antiseptic—a chemical smell that was overwhelming and frightening. And the temperature of the operating room felt like those moments when I’ve looked deep into the refrigerator to find an old sandwich, way in the back, behind the carton of milk. I began to shiver.

“Would you like a blanket, Mr. Benson?”

“I’m the open-heart—right?” I smiled.

“Birthday?”

“One, twenty-one, fifty-six.”

“Yup. Open-heart. Want that blanket now?”

“Sure. Thanks.” The first kind gesture so far this morning… things are looking up.

People with blue smocks and paper masks on came into view. A clear plastic gas mask was suddenly being lowered over my nose and mouth; a bit of an ambush. I felt my pulse race like my first solo flight in a Piper Cub and thought, ‘Yippee! Here we go!’

I was asked to count backwards from 100. I knew I’d never get to 95, so I went, “100, 99... 2, 1—Ha!”

“He thinks he’s
funny
. Just wait ’til he wakes up. Let’s see how funny he thinks he is then,” were the last words I heard.

When I awoke from surgery
(somewhere between deep sleep and a bad nap with water-boarding), I wondered if anyone had written down the license number of the truck that hit me.

I never thought I would die. I was in great physical shape and my mental ‘fitness’ was as strong and as positive as one could get without being lobotomized. I had too much faith in my will to live, my surgeon, the other doctors and nurses. There was no way I was going to die. I had a baby and a wife to come home to—no death for me. (Three surgeries after this one, I surmised that this is a good attitude, no matter what the intellectual foundation.)

Remarkably, I felt like I had heard everything that had happened in the operating room. But my first agenda was to get these tubes that were down my esophagus
out!
I immediately yanked on whatever was in my mouth and pulled it from my throat. I heard a young woman’s voice say, “Oh, shit—he just pulled his …”—and then I opened my eyes. I was moving.

I made out the shapes of my mother and Karla for a millisecond. It took every ounce of will but I did manage to sa
y “Trick or Treat!”

They l
iterally squealed with delight, but then I was gone, unconscious again. The next thing I heard was a man vomiting, over and over. My eyes refused to open. I screamed inside my head, chastising my eyes and ordering them to open, but they yelled back at me: ‘No!’ I couldn’t move a muscle but I could
hear
and remember with precision; the mental clarity was awesome.

I heard a doctor complain, “It really sucks that a guy who tried to O.D. was put in the cardiac ICU.” And then I heard the man vomit again as they pumped his stomach. The same doctor said, “Look at this—he got blood on my new shirt! How am I gonna get this out?” And in unison my mom, my sister and Karla, with the wry sarcasm that makes up the trio that I love so much, said “Shout it out!” (mimicking the annoying commercial for the popular laundry product).

I heard my family talking and reading get-well cards.
We may look unconscious, but we hear more than one might think.
I’ve been with people in comas or in a deep drugged state due to cancer and was appalled at the way others would speak, as if the patient wasn’t in the room.

Take it from me,
patients hear everything
.

The next thing I knew, a nurse was screaming in my ear: “Mr. Benson? Mr. Benson? Wake up! Do you know where you are? Mr. Benson, you just had open-heart surgery. It’s time for you to wake up Mr. Benson!”

‘My god, woman, stop screaming in my ear,’ I tried to say.

Nothing came out. I had open-heart surgery not a middle ear cholesteatoma. Hmmm. Why would I know that medical term? Even though I’m drugged with anesthesia, I seem to have a heightened sense of intelligence, memory; a clarity that was fabulous—except for the fact I now upgraded my collision from a Mack Truck to a ROTEM K2 ‘Black Panther’ Tank.

Oh, my head! Another migraine? How can that be? Who took a bite out of my head?

I noticed that my sense of smell was over-the-top: in survival mode. I smelled everything from B.O. to individual perfumes and colognes. I’ve always had a ridiculously heightened sense of smell, but now I knew exactly what this woman had for lunch: B.L.T., hold the mayo but gimme the chips. Cheddar cheese chips. And were they playing Bach in the operating room? I was sure of it! I’d have to ask.

“Mr. Benson, can you see me?” That was an ironic question. I am legally blind without my contact lenses: -11.5. I can’t see anything but shapes. Shouldn’t she know that?

“Mr. Benson, if you want to get out of the ICU, you’re going to have to wake up, sit up and show me you are ready to move. Can you hear me? Can you wake up? Are you awake? Can—you—hear—me?” she yelled.

‘YES!’ I screamed, but absolutely nothing came out of my mouth.

I know she meant no harm, and I’m sure she had to do this every single day of the week, and maybe someone was waiting for my bed in the ICU, but it was painful to the
new
migraine. And then… there was the
REAL
pain.

Not migraine pain—
NUCLEAR PAIN
.

I worked hard to open my eyes and saw the blurry outline of the nurse who had been yelling at me.