Surgery Today

Bring it.

Enough

Fools claim that I am neither even nor odd. In my realm, multiplication is death and division is insanity. Vanity is useless for I define all, and only I will remain when all is gone. I cannot be invented, modified, or denied – attempts to add to or diminish from my presence do not require my presence. I am nothing and that is enough.

That’s just the big Zero talking about being Zero, but how much is enough? One more drink, one more orgasm, one more smile, one more sunset, one more breath, one more cent, one more tumor, one more what!? Too many or too much, countable or uncountable – it all started from nothing.

I had a dream that I was Hitler in his last days. Instead of being in a bunker, I was in a polished forest filled with trees so high that they disappeared into painful brightness. I knew that the countryside was talking about me, plotting and predicting when I would end my life. I was about to oblige them when I looked down into a tin cup filled with coffee grounds. There was enough coffee in there to brew another pot. I decided that I’d finish off the coffee first.

I remained in my water bed and tried to decipher this dream. Part of it has to be this blood and iron battle lust that’s been growing in me as I count down the hours to the surgery. Hitler burst into the dream because he’s a historical figure reported to have had one testicle. He lost the other one from an abdominal injury he sustained during World War I. The surgeon who removed Hitler’s testicle and probably saved his life later cursed himself for letting such a man remain in this world. The surgeon also reported that Hitler’s first question after the surgery was “will I still be able to have children?” As for ending Hitler’s life, I’m not feeling suicidal - I’ve already endured enough cowardice and don’t need to abide by that notion. I’m just tired of waiting. I want to get past this current state. I need an answer even if that means getting peeled apart. Oh yeah - the coffee part of the dream was due to my Mom grinding and brewing coffee in the kitchen downstairs as Hitler contemplated his final days.

The coffee in my dream cup was enough, a disassembled but still accurate hourglass. This will be my last, lengthy post until after the surgery, so I want it to be enough.

The surgeon for this major operation has a great track record. Everything will go well. There will be no cancer spread. That will be enough.

What if the surgeon slips? Well, actually, it will be more of a prolonged spasm. It will happen after the surgical team has finished opening me up from sternum to waist. My internal organs and intestines will have been shifted to all the proper locations. The Doctor’s entire arm will tremble uncontrollably, unreasonably; it won’t stop until he’s sawed through my intestines and severed the nerves along my spinal cord. By then my body will be twitching and sucking in his arm up to its shoulder – whatever sharp instrument is still clutched in his grip will shred my lungs and pierce my heart. That is ridiculous. That is more than enough. If anything, it will probably be an adverse reaction to the anesthesia. Oops, he never woke up. Perhaps I’ll have some unknown allergy to the loads of antibiotics being pumped through my body. It could be any form of nothingness, the big Zero, staking its claim, telling me that I’ve had enough.

I’m scared shitless, but I’m starting to get a handle on this fear angle; it means going through with something even though you’re terrified. That is almost enough, but I think that it’d be too little to deny these fears. I’m going to give into them one more time and relate my wishes given the big Zero.

I don’t want to be embalmed, and I’d like to be buried under a weeping willow, which is my favorite type of tree. I’d like the plaque on that tree to be mostly silver with just my full name, birth date, death date, and nothing else. I expect to be wearing my threadbare, lucky, ARMY shirt (I’m wearing it to the surgery) – if the overall appearance is too disheveled, then I’ll be fine with wearing a snazzy suit coat, but be sure that at least some of the shirt is showing. There is no dress code for anyone who comes to the funeral; come as you are or how you want to be. I want the time to be from 10AM to 4PM so early morning folks and late night people will be forced to mingle. I’d like someone to play the IZ version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow at 1PM. Other than that, I’d like it to be disorganized. If you have something that you want to say, then say it. If you’d like to bring a priest, pastor, rabbi, imam, shaman, or whomever, then please do so – just make sure that no one hogs the air waves and that everyone is allowed to speak. Most of all, I would like you to do something that scares you, preferably before you come.

That’s all, and that will be enough. However, I’d like to say one more thing. I want to talk about our collective ‘fuck you’ to the big Zero. Nothing is loveless and everything requires love. Love is timeless. Love is unpredictable. Love is difficult. It is both divine and humble. You can never have enough love, since its very presence calls for more – please seek it at every point in your life.

Deposit

Mike left his cup. I don’t think that he was overly forgetful – definitely not senile, since he was born in April of 1981. I could tell from his handwriting that he was from Florida. One the day of his birth, it rained so hard and the winds were so fierce that many radio broadcasts were temporarily knocked off the air waves. Don’t get me wrong; this was just as particularly energetic display of April showers; hurricane season in 1981 didn’t begin until June. As Mike shot from his Mother’s womb on that April day, the first waking, full-of-life sounds he heard were radio static. Mike’s Mom had insisted that the Nurses keep the radio tuned to WKJIZZ, her favorite smooth jazz station. As the Nurses timed the contractions and the Doctor cupped his hands to form Mike’s landing pad, no one bothered to turn down the corrupted sound; no one savored the white noise, except for Mike.

That was why the radio, which was also probably manufactured in the early 80s, was tuned to static when I entered the half-carpeted and half-tiled room with the porcelain throne and the brown leather chair.

“So you’re going to write your name and birth date on the side and on the top of the cup. You’ll also fill out the form and place it under the cup right in here,” the short, semi-chunky, semi-motherly Nurse, who seems to be a fixture in all hospitals, told me. Here was behind a grey, metal door set in the wall. She pulled it open to show me the receptacle. “Oh, I don’t know how that happened,” she tsked.

That was when I met Mike secondhand. He had left his cup because he’d been following instructions. As I noticed the name and birth date I also registered the yellow-white goop along the bottom rim of the cup. The nurse whisked away the used cup and completed form. “Any questions?” she asked.

“Uh, what do I do when I get it done?” I asked.

“You’ll hit that buzzer near the receptacle, OK? And also, there are… magazines… for you next to the chair,” she responded. I thanked her and she left.

I tuned the radio set on a table next to brown leather chair to the nearest form of non-static. That turned out to be an Oldies station.

“Sugar, ahh, honey, honey – you are my candy girl,” the radio cooed. Several folds of thick, white paper had been draped across the seat of the chair. I inspected it for any skid marks. If they’d let Mike leave behind his cup, what else had been left behind? I was there early for my 9 AM Friday appointment, which was supposedly the earliest time available. Had Mike’s remnants been allowed to settle overnight?

I decided to not look at the magazines just yet, since that would be something to look forward to as I first filled out the form. Beyond the usual personal information, the form asked me about the method of collection, which ranged from masturbation to condom-use to partner involvement. I checked off masturbation, my primary area of expertise.

The form also instructed me to not use any lubricant, but if I absolutely had to use it, then I should use only the mineral oil provided. And there it was, the mineral oil, plastic-sealed and lying next to the plastic cup. Now, I think spit is probably one of the best lubricants, but I wasn’t sure if the digestive enzymes in my saliva would ravage the seed over time, especially if they gave my cup the Mike treatment. I finished filling out the form, labeled the cup, and unwrapped the mineral oil – porn time!

If you’re ever going to make a deposit at the sperm bank, then make sure to ask to inspect their porn collection first. The only two magazines in the bin next to the leather chair were Playboy and Penthouse. I didn’t bother with the Playboy – it’s vintage and historically significant, but I needed some pink. Penthouse was better; there was one great girl next door photo shoot, but then I started imagining that the corners of the pages were sticky. I could see Mike hunched on the end of the chair and unconsciously licking his fingers as he hurriedly turned the pages. I lost my erection.

My pants were around my ankles but I hadn’t actually made contact with leather chair seat. What if they hadn’t changed the paper pad? Should I have just turned the pad over? I was worried that someone had already done that. I wished that I had a black light. I threw the Penthouse back into the bin, walked over to the tiled bathroom half of the room, and washed my hands.

What would make me comfortable? I realized that I rarely looked at magazines. My perfect session consisted of being hunched in front of my laptop and having two or three free porn sites running simultaneously. I’d pick a topic of the day: twins, pigtailed babysitters, MILF accidental creampie, ebony oiled amateur threesome! How could a pair of lousy magazines compete with that? It was time to bust out the mineral oil and my imagination.

I remembered some particularly good experiences: a beach towel in the wilderness, the floor of a laundry room, my hands folded on top of another pair as they gripped balcony rails. I invented new experiences and cycled through 3 or 4 girls. I sometimes introduced them, and then my mind went blank. I let go.

I had one hand braced on the bathroom sink, the vial of mineral oil was nearly empty, and I reached desperately for the cup. Luckily, I had unscrewed the cap before, but it was still a near miss. Most of my savings collected along the bottom surface, but some stuck to the side. I screwed back on the cap and tried to manually centrifuge it to the bottom – no dice.

I washed my hands, threw away the rest of the mineral oil, peed, and washed my hands again. I filled out the last part of the single form that asked for the time of collection. It was only 9:25, but it felt like I’d been in the room for several hours and that it was time for lunch. I surveyed the cup and tried to gauge how I’d stacked up compared to Mike, who may or may not have had two balls. If I counted the bits along the inner surface, then I think that we were about even. The real tests that accounted for both quality and quantity would be done during the next week.

I hit the buzzer and wondered if I should stick around to make sure they filed my deposit right away. I decided against it, since I’d already made a fuss over the last form that I had waited until the day of my appointment to sign. It was the disclaimer form; I had crossed out and initialed the part that stated that the clinic accepted no responsibility for the “loss, mishandling, or mislabeling” of my sperm.

I pointed out the revision to another receptionist with clear, blue eyes. She seemed puzzled. “Hmmm – I’m not sure if you can do that. No one’s ever mentioned that to me before. Hang on,” she said. She called a number and stated my query.

Several minutes later, an older woman with bright eyes and a smile of authority joined us. “Sir, they just put that language there for unforeseen circumstances – like if the building burned down for instance. I assure that they’ll handle the sperm properly.” She smiled.

I grimaced back. “Right, I understand. There’s no control over a fire or some type of natural disaster. I mean, if there was a roving gang of sperm bank bandits, I could see how that’d be out of our hands. I’m just talking about the actions under our control. I’d like some assurance,” I said.

Her smile of authority became genuine. I think she had looked back at the form and saw that I’d circled cancer from the list of medical conditions. “I'll take this upstairs and ask,” she replied.

The sperm boss upstairs must have had his or her fill of dealing with stressed cancer patients, because the woman assured me that I could keep that part crossed out when she came back downstairs.

Thus, I decided to leave my deposit and walk out of the masturbation room. As I made sure that the door remained ajar for the next jerk-off, a short, black man in a white medical coat with ‘technician’ stenciled on the right breast caught my eye.

“Hi, so am I done?” I asked him.

“Well, yes – wait are you – do you – are you a… cancer patient?” he asked with the last part coming out in hushed tones.

“Uhhh, yeah,” I replied.

“I have an information packet for you.” He handed me a colorful folder filled with different pamphlets, the kind of arrangement you might get if you were touring a college. “Your physician will talk to you about the results of your tests and whether you need to make a second visit.” He said the word ‘physician’ with reverence, and I realized that he was a man who truly believed in what he was doing.

I thanked him and reached out to shake his hand. He hesitated, and at first, I thought it was because of where my hand had just been and what it had just done. The hesitation was actually for him to take off his latex glove so that our hand shake would be palm to palm. Anyway, it was a good handshake and a decent way to acknowledge the millions of potential baby-Egans that now reside in a cryogenic state in Nashville.