Quick Peek

This is just a quick post before I drink tequila on the beach in the almost palindrome city. Closure in Chicago and Snipers in Miami will follow.

This will be the first day that I can really let go, since I've been trying to somehow squeeze 20 hours of web writing into the last 3 days. So I guess what happened this morning could be viewed as a test. My SuperBall hurt this morning, and when I went to the bathroom, there was blood in my stool - unmistakably so. These are the same conditions that I noticed about a month before I was diagnosed. I checked the vein on my remaining testicle - was there a lump on the end? I can't quite tell, but if so, then having access to the vein, a vascular intersection, would cause it to spread faster.

This could just be paranoia/hypochondria. The point is I thought this was over. I thought that I got the surgery so that I could have that answer. I'm realizing that there are no guarantees, and the check-ups I have scheduled for later months are starting to make more sense.

So what should I do - disrupt my trip to Miami and go see my oncologist and urologist - have them assure me that there is nothing wrong and these worries are perfectly natural or have them deliver grim news and have to stop my trip altogether? Not a fucking chance. I can wait for that answer when I go to one of my scheduled check-ups. I'll be a compliant patient and report the symptoms when that time comes. This month is mine.

I'm beginning to realize that the surgery wasn't about just getting an answer of spread or no spread - the lasting answer was that I can do what it takes to get my answer when the time comes. After all, I do have time, and what is there left to lose in terms of packaging? Either I'll keep my SuperBall for the rest of my life, or I'll deal with that loss when it comes. I can't let the time leading up to that moment of truth be filled with worries over possible outcomes. I can't let a future moment define my present life.

So I'm considering this to be my first day of vacation, the first day where I truly let go. What do I need to do now? Go to the beach, babewatch, and drink tequila with good people. That's it.

Confrontations

I was offered a quick preview of travels to come when I visited my little brother in New Orleans for the St. Patrick ’s Day parade. Spring had already gone full throttle there, think muggy South with a tropical flair. Until recently, I had thought that Fall was my favorite season, gradual auburn decay and shortening daylight hours that warranted careful reflection. Now Spring, the burst of sensations, new life seemingly arising from nowhere, is my favorite time of year. Fall back, spring forward, right?

Anyway, New Orleans is a city that loves parades – I’m told that they even throw a parade for Po’ Boy sandwiches. Perhaps that’s why their roads are so shitty, parade floats and people stomping along the same patch of asphalt month after month. But the ramshackle roads and dilapidated dwellings set among modern architecture and manicured parks constitute a way to constantly jog the mind from seeing and subsequently ignoring its surroundings. Even from the causeway the city had color, houses painted pink, blue, orange with bars and restaurants set among them. And the girls there had this extra spice, a lazy, braless beauty that made me wonder at my own puritan streak.

I spent the two nights there at my little brother’s apartment, and the first night was spent drinking bourbon at a nearby bar. I’d been good about not drinking regularly and during odd hours of the day. During my recovery at home, I marveled at how a wine bottle could be opened and not be emptied until four days later. I’m starting to think my overdrinking or any substance misuse is rooted in fear, real or imagined worries that plague me and that I wish to forget. That doesn’t work: “wait, why am I so drunk again? Oh yeah, imagined fear #2. Hey, why do I feel like shit this morning? Oh, #2, I knew you’d come back.” Running from something is a great way to remind yourself about what you’re running from. It’s not that complicated. The tricky part is identifying what I’m running from and finding ways to turn the chase around.

My first night out saw me getting steadily drunk on bourbon, but I wasn’t unhappy about it. It was my first night out since being cooped up at home for over a month, and I intended to get drunk. I think there’s a difference between voluntary and involuntary drinking, and nothing was chasing me that night. My little brother and I played pool for most of the night; our shots got progressively worse as the night wore on, but we still managed to win most of our games.

One girl, tan, blonde, blue-eyed and wearing a dress that seemed set-up for a nipple slip hung around the table. She was one of those overtly flirtatious types who finds you boring if you don’t overtly flirt back but doesn’t realize that those one-dimensional approaches are boring unto themselves. I don’t think my little brother had the same qualms, since he made out with her a little bit (I asked him later what he said to start it. It was “you have the most beautiful, blue eyes.” “Really?” she asked. “Yeah,” he said. Really? Yeah.) This blonde superstar had a friend, a brunette with a heart-shaped face, huge breasts that didn’t look ridiculous on her, and this perfect, curvy butt.

She came over and spoke to me. “Sorry about her. It’s probably past her bedtime.” I shrugged, looked down at her boobs, and tried to cover for it by asking what she was drinking.

“It’s just water,” she said.

“Oh, water’s great. It can’t be underestimated. I love water. I mean, I would be the first to go in a drought. I sweat a lot, but not all the time. Yeah, water’s good,” I said.

“Well, yeah. Enjoy your drink. I’m going to get back to sitting with my friends.” She smiled. I didn’t quite feel rejected, more embarrassed that I had talked about sweating and my water fixation for my first line. When I asked my little brother about her, he told me that she went to his school, he had tried to hit on her once, and that she probably had a boyfriend. I noticed one guy sitting next to her and another guy sitting across, both not bad-looking guys, and they seemed to be able to hold a conversation.

The night wore down, and as we got ready to leave, I asked myself if there would be one thing about this first night out that I’d regret. I walked up to the brunette, still sitting next to the two guys, and said “I just wanted to let you know that you’re awesome and cute, whether or not you have a boyfriend. Thanks for being at this bar and for being cute and awesome. Have a great night.”

Her eyes widened a little before she smiled and said thanks. I turned and left. I had talked to a cute girl, one of my fears/insecurities that I want to overcome during my travels. Maybe I should have just kept it short (“You have the most beautiful, brown eyes”). I know that I’m 23 and not 12 but that had made my night.

The next morning, I went for a hungover bike ride through Audobon Park. A path tangent to the circular walkway took me to a series of Live Oaks. These are basically trees straight out of the Lion King. The nub-covered branches glide down to the ground invitingly. I stopped my bike, overcome with a desire to climb one of those trees. The Live Oak wasn’t one of those stunt trees that look perfect for climbing from far away but then turn out to be covered in territorial ants, thorns, and sap. The tree bark was gentle on my hands except for the nubs, which made great handholds. I scrabbled up the first branch and the only pain was a few inches above my crotch where some of the stitches had burst before. I also recalled my minor fear of heights when I was halfway up the branch, but the nubs guided me to the center of the tree where the great trunk diverged into two semi-trunks. I found my way around one of those semi-trunks and dared to walk along another gliding branch until I reached the ground. I had followed an M-shaped path, had climbed for less than two minutes, and had ended up on that same starting patch of ground, but that had somehow made my morning.

Making my nights and making my mornings – this realization that I want something, that I deserve it, and that I can have it. I’m not talking about owning my own Live Oak or fucking a beautiful brunette that I met in a bar until she forgets her name. Both may be future possibilities, but I’m talking about making moments and savoring their creation.

I haven’t told anyone the exact details of my second night in New Orleans. I’ve caught myself starting to do so on several occasions before changing the subject. I don’t want to hear my own voice taking on an apologetic tone, pitter-pattering around the story and making whiny, half-promises that I’m not trying to exaggerate any parts. In many ways I think I’m a better person on the page.

The second night started out much the same way as the first; my little brother and I went to a bar frequented by college kids and people under 30. I had realized that my little brother, although two years my junior, had more experience talking to girls that I did. I had asked him what made a good approach, and he said confidence, something that I’ve heard countless times before.

“Yeah, confidence, that’s great when you’re feeling it. But what if you aren’t feeling confident at the time?” I asked.

“You’re just supposed to act confident then,” he said. And that’s just it – there are points during the day where I feel self-assured, ready to take on the world, and a few hours later, I’m a lousy tool without even the illusive luxury of personal control. I don’t know how many people have similar experiences throughout the day, but it was heartening to know that others appearing to be confident merely wanted to feel confident. Before I had thought confidence was a combination of personality and biological traits, something bestowed upon alpha males that I could one day obtain through years of rigorous training in harsh environments.

There was an unspoken agreement between me and my little brother that we’d try to get me laid that night. The bar was called The Point and also had a convenient store and pizza place attached. Now, New Orleans is a paradise for anyone with alcoholic tendencies. I wasn’t aware of any open container laws, and everyone was outside drinking on the sidewalk and on picnic tables. My little brother and I sat on a curb, drank 22 oz. beers, and had a good, brotherly talk. Perhaps I just wasn’t getting as drunk as the night before, but after we went inside, I realized that my little brother could be a jerk. Maybe it was the fact that I got a glass of Wild Turkey at the bar and got him the same.

We were sitting at a table, and I pointed out this one girl jamming in a short, short black dress. She was grinding good naturedly on some guy’s lap. My little brother urged me to go over there and get her to grind on me. I laughed and said no, so he went over there and asked the guy if he was her boyfriend. He said no, so my little brother started dancing with the girl, put in a good word for me, and waved me over. It was a sweet gesture, and the girl started grinding on me as her dress rode up. She was pressed up so close against me that I had to wonder whether or not she could feel my SuperBall jiggling to the beat. We smiled at each other after the song was over, and she went back to dancing with her friend.

My little brother went to the bathroom and I worked up the nerve to approach a group of three dancing girls. That’s another fear of mine, dancing. I can talk at the bar and drink straight whiskey without making a face, but the subtler movements on the dance floor elude me. It’s as if everyone but me knows of this hidden soundtrack, so I swayed my hips experimentally, talked to the girls for a few minutes, forgot to keep “dancing”, and eventually retreated back to my table.

I still felt good about making the approach, and something I’ve started doing lately is taking three deep breaths at bars and clubs. Before the third breath is exhaled, I will talk to a girl that has caught my interest. I got this idea from the Dune series, where one of the main characters reflects on a mind mantra (“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”) Don’t worry - I’m not a big enough dork to be saying that under my breath, but the controlled breathing helps.

Anyway, my little brother had returned from the bathroom and was urging me to go back to grinding on the girl in the short, short black dress.

“Dude, she was nice. She’s dancing with her friend this time around. He seemed like a chill enough dude,” I said.

“That guy’s a faggot-bitch. He’s not even her boyfriend. Just go cut between them, so she’s dancing with you,” he said.

“Uh, I don’t think that guy’s gay or whatever you’re trying to say. Maybe I’ll go over there for the next dance,” I replied.

“Please, Robert. Come on, man, you have to do it. Please?” he asked.

“No dude, I’m not going to be a dick,” I said. My little brother strode up and did it himself. The guy dancing with her was surprised and then shrugged it off, raised his hands up, shook his head and smiled. The girl continued dancing with my little brother now, and he waved me over again. I stood there awkwardly, and after the song switched, I smiled apologetically at the group of friends. The dancing girl smiled back, but I think her eyes said something along the lines of “get your friend to behave, please.”

“Hey, man. Let’s go outside, see if anything is going on out there,” I said.

As we sat outside with a fresh pair of drinks and people-watched, my little brother kept cat-calling to people. “Hey man, you should dance with her really good, or else she’ll leave you,” he said to a guy arguing with his girlfriend along the nearby wall. “Goddamn, hey, hey slow down, baby,” he called to a pair of girls since the outline of a G-string was visible under one of their dresses. “Hey. Hey. Hey. Yeah, you. Heyyyyy,” he jeered to a group of three guys with crew cuts sitting next to their girlfriends at a picnic table.

“Dude, stop being a dumbass.” I gave my little brother a light, back-handed slap across his forehead.

“What? They don’t mind. Everyone does it,” he said. As far as I know, he was the only person outside doing that. He got up to get us more drinks from the inside bar. I approached the group of guys and girlfriends sitting at the table.

“Hey, sorry about that. He’s my little brother and drunk. He didn’t mean anything by it,” I said.

“Hey, man. No harm no foul, don’t worry about it,” a dude with a strawberry blonde crew cut said.

“These guys are Marines, you know,” one of the girls who looked like she had probably been a goth kid in high school said.

“Yeah, if it came down to it, we’d just kill him.” A shorter marine laughed.

“Well, you’d have to kill me too,” I said.

We looked at each other and laughed. One of them shook my hand as my little brother came out of the bar. We resumed our seat and had some decent, civilized conversations with a few passerby, before deciding that we should head to another bar a few blocks away, a ritzier establishment with the same owner as the current bar.

My little brother also knew some people who lived in an apartment right across the street from the bar. He hammered on their door even though the lights were out. Surprisingly, no one answered, so we went across the street to the bar. The doorman told us it was last call, and people were streaming out from the doors. I glanced inside, considering whether we should go in, and when I turned around, my little brother was gone. There were yells coming from across the street.

My little brother was back across the street, hammering at the apartment door. A large group of guys were approaching from the corner, and a few of them were screaming at him. I ran across the street to my little brother.

“What happened?” I asked. He told me he didn’t know, but I already had a good idea of what had happened. My partially blacked out little brother had probably talked shit to that passing group. I counted five guys and about 2 or 3 more hanging at the corner of the apartment building.

Three were walking towards us. I stood in front of my little brother, who was still hammering away at the apartment door. Perhaps I could have found the right apology to make them forget about us and go home and brag about how close they had come to kicking our asses. I started to take my three deep breaths and was trying to find the words when one of them spoke. Actually, he barked first.

“Arf, Arf, Arf!” As he barked, he swung his head and shoulder down toward the sidewalk repeatedly, drawn by some invisible vector that made sense to him.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Oh, I get it you want us to cross this line, huh? Awww, if I cross this line, are you going to let us have it? OK, OK!” This came from a weasel-faced, pale kid with a backwards cap and flipped up hair. He stepped in front of his barking friend, drew a line across the sidewalk, and jumped over it a few feet away from my face.

Shit-shit-shit. Now would be the time to apologize.

I remembered that high school football game that took place at least seven years ago, the one that I was mulling over as I realized that I was a coward and that it was in my best interest to get my surgery. My little brother had probably spoken some shit even way back then to cause that guy to drive him to the asphalt and pummel him in the face. Upon passing the chain-link fence entrance and seeing the guy who had done that to him hanging out behind the bleachers, I approached him. I asked him if he had done that to my brother. He replied in the affirmative. The crowd circled us as I clenched my fists and we looked each other in the eyes. The adrenaline started from my then intact ball sac and traveled up my stomach; it became a buzzing my head, and I imagined the ringing of his fists against my face when he drove me to the ground and gave me the same treatment as my little brother. I lowered my eyes and unclenched my fists. I turned my back on the guy and walked to the bathroom. I spent the rest of the night wringing insincere apologies from him as he spat dip and talked on his cell phone; it was one of the most shameful moments of my life.

Now, in New Orleans, on a strange sidewalk filled with at least half a dozen guys willing to kick our asses, the adrenaline made a second visit. It started from my single SuperBall and traced its way along my scar, past my belly button and to my sternum. I exhaled my third breath, and it stopped at my throat.

“Get on home,” I said.

“What!? You don’t tell me what to do boy.” This came from another guy, now in my face. He was about my build, had a buzz-cut, and looked scrappier than his weasel-faced friend. I thought about it – he was basically part of a much bigger group and throwing a tantrum. I smiled at him as if to humor a cranky child. He clenched his fists and waved them up and down his torso. Maybe he was trying to make me think that he was going to hit me. Instead, it contributed to the tantrum image, a toddler who didn’t want to eat his broccoli or go to bed. I smiled wider.

The guy stormed back up the sidewalk and then jumped in place as if he were just gathering distance to charge us at full-speed. He stayed in place a little bit too long, and one of his friends took the cue and walked up to restrain him. Once that happened, he became brave again, struggled against his friend’s embrace. “Yeah, you just cross this crosswalk, you fucking pussies! We’ll be waiting,” he screamed.

His two friends remained on the sidewalk near where one of them had drawn the imaginary line, and two more guys from the corner joined them. My little brother was pounding on the apartment door now. A light came one, there was a faint outline at the door, and the light went off. Yeah, I probably wouldn’t have let us in either.

A car pulled up to the curb behind my little brother and me. Fuck, even more?

“Oh, so you were waiting for your boys to back you up!” the weasel-faced kid, quite the talker, spoke up. Phew, at least the people pulling up were a neutral third party? Weasel-face’s comment also gave me insight into the group mentality: call up all your friends to back you up, and you can be as brave as you want to be.

“No, we don’t know them. We don’t need them,” I said. Even if you’re not feeling confident, you should act it.

One of the guys got out of the car and stepped between us and the sub-group. He looked at the reinforcements waiting at the corner and then looked at me.

“You guys should find another way home. Call a taxi if you have to. I’m just saying that’s in your best interest, right?” he asked and nodded when he saw the comprehension in my eyes.

“But that’s the road that we have to take to get home,” I said.

“Find another road, man. That’s all I’m saying,” he replied. I nodded and said thanks. He got back into his car. During our conversation, the group of four had walked back to the corner to reform the larger group. Jeers and yells about not crossing their road came at us. That wasn’t their road, and now they were hooting and hollering as if it were. Millions of years of evolution, right?

“Hey, let’s get home, alright?” I said this to my little brother. He had stopped knocking at the door, and his eyes were somewhat glazed. That was when another of my fears kicked in – paranoia. If we were to turn our backs and cross over a few blocks, who’s to say that they wouldn’t follow us? Hell, it might not even be the whole group, just a handful. They might not even confront us, just follow us long enough to note the cross streets of my little brother’s apartment and come back with an even bigger group some day. Of course, that could still happen if we took “their” crosswalk.

“Walk beside me. Don’t say anything. Don’t look at them. Pretend they’re not even there,” I told my little brother. He nodded, and we walked toward the group and started taking the crosswalk.

We were halfway across when three or four guys started following us. Another group cut across the street to the side of us and made their way down the sidewalk. The two groups converged when we made it to the other side.

They pushed us back off the sidewalk, and Weasel- face started scuffling with my brother. I grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him around. I wasn’t aware of how many guys were around us any longer, so I thought it best to go one at a time. I jabbed my finger at him and started yelling in his face to back off. Either he did, or one of his friends swept him aside. Whatever happened, I was now facing a considerably bigger dude; he looked like that soldier that shot himself in Full Metal Jacket. He had the type of pecks that would inevitably become man-boobs as he aged. I’m not sure how tall he was; I just remember that I had to look up to maintain eye contact.

“You back the fuck off! You better step back or I’m going to punch you in the face. I’ll give you to the count of three,” he yelled. He cocked back his right fist as if it were a cannon, loaded and ready. Did he think that we were in a fucking movie? Also, how was I going to explain my black eye? I stood in place with my hands at my sides and stared into his angry, brown, slightly confused eyes.

“One -”

His fist cocked further back, but I held his eyes in the future tense. I will not cringe. I will not flinch. I will not falter. I will not drop my eyes like a goddamn dog.

“Two-”

Pummel me. Beat me to a pulp. You will not humiliate me. I will defeat you without swinging a single fist.

“Goddamnit! I’m serious. Why the fuck won’t you move?” he shouted in my face.

It was now safe to break eye contact. I put my arm around my little brother’s shoulders, and we walked up that sidewalk. I wish I could say that we just kept walking, but the big guy with the cannon fist kept following us for half a block while his friends lagged behind. That’s when the paranoia kicked back in, and I turned around.

“Why don’t you fight me, faggot?” he yelled. Why didn’t I? The adrenaline had finally made its way to my head, but now it was a roar instead of a buzz. I stormed back down the sidewalk.

“Stop following us!” I pushed cannon-fist in the chest with both hands. He barely budged and it hurt my left wrist when he grabbed it; he also gripped above my right elbow. There were bruises in the shape of fingertips in both places the following day. As we circled around, I kicked him in the shin with my heel. He let go, fell back, and swung his right fist in a hook punch at the same time. I ducked and pushed on his shoulder instead of his chest. His fist still grazed the top of my head, but he stumbled back this time.

I saw a person in a white shirt run across the street toward us.

“Cops! You better get out of here. Oh, too late!”

I don’t know if cannon-fist ran back down the sidewalk in time or if he was escorted off, but a white Police SUV was parked across the sidewalk. And two policemen had me and my brother against a fence. They asked for our IDs.

They wanted to know where we lived. My little brother started saying something that didn’t make much sense, and my first thought was “Oh no, please, please, please don’t talk any more shit – we don’t want to go to lock-up.” He finally told them his cross street and then kept talking. I put a hand on his chest.

“I’m visiting, and I’m his older brother,” I said.

“Fine. What happened?” the cop with dark hair asked.

“I was across the street when I heard the shouting and saw this big group of guys heading towards him. I don’t know why. You know, I don’t know why they would pick on two guys when there were so many of them,” I said.

Both of the cops were smaller guys. I wonder if they had their share of bullies growing up. I think the other cop, the blond one holding the flash light, did because he shook his head in disapproval.

“What else happened?” the blonde cop asked.

“They told us not to cross the street, but, well, this is the street we have to take home,” I said.

The dark haired cop looked like he was going to ask another question, something along the lines of “why didn’t you just take another street?”

“I don’t get why they were so angry. They were so angry. Why were they so angry?” I asked the blonde haired cop. It was an honest question; I didn’t quite see, regardless of what my little brother said, why a big group of guys would want to kick the shit out of two strangers.

“You know, it could be anything. You’re a visitor, see? Sometimes it’s just a fraternity sort of thing, or if you’re just in a different fraternity, something like that,” the blonde cop said.

I nodded as he filled in the gaps. The two cops turned out to be really decent fellows. They asked me if I was visiting for Mardi Gras and shook their heads when I said that I missed it and only caught the St. Patty’s Day parade. They gave us a ride back to my little brother’s apartment. The dark haired cop seemed intent on convincing me that New Orleans was a great city despite the occasional drunk jerks. I agreed, we shook hands, and my little brother and I made it back to the apartment in one piece.

I savored the twinge of pain on the left side of my head that came up every time I chewed the next day. I realized that I’d faced one of my fears – confrontations. I had always thought that those interactions were about who would win in the physical realm, who could take who. Maybe they still are, but I think it also has to do with how we experience fear. It’s there for a reason, but when listening to it dampens the quality of life, it’s time to face that fear, no matter the consequences. There are still many more fears to come; I intend to keep turning that chase around, starting in Miami, since I just bought my first ticket.

Back in Chicago, I’ve also realized that I used to look down at the ground when passing other people on the sidewalk. What’s so interesting down there? I try to hold my head up high, keep my gaze level, and not shy away from eye contact, because how else am I supposed to enjoy the world around me?

Classic Tale

In a billion years, the surface temperatures of the Sun could rise to the point that all oceans, lakes, and rivers will evaporate and life on Earth as we know it will slip away. Of course, overpopulation problems will probably contribute to our gradual extinction much sooner. Perhaps we’ll find a way to travel the cosmos and populate new worlds, temporary tenacious technological tricks to save us from our own bright consumption. The worlds we find will have their own stars, ticking bombs that won’t adhere to our timelines. Forget about billions, millions, or thousands of years. In this lifetime, if you fight for your dreams and give it your all, you still might fail. You might even forget what you were fighting for as time moves on without you - seeping seconds sapping souls.

So what? The cancer didn’t spread. All of the laboratory tests came back negative. I heard my voice when I got the phone call; it sounded happy. It kept that tone for other phone calls that I made to spread the news. The thing is I don’t feel healed. So what now?

Now is the time for a classic tale of true love and high adventure in which I will reunite with old friends, make new acquaintances, get lost repeatedly, and give names to my fears so that I can call them out to do battle. It will begin in Miami and possibly end in Boston. I don’t know how I will pay for my travel, but I do know that it will involve more buses and trains than planes. I also know that I will set out before the end of March. For whatever adventures await me, I will have to strong, smart, and fast. I will have to be… organized?

There, I’ve written it, so that means that I can’t back out now.

Bathroom Fly (a belated post with a bunch of hyphens)

There’s been a fruit fly surviving the winter in the bathroom for the last month. I usually notice it when it’s resting on the curtainless, eye-level window facing the backyard. Why the bathroom? Well, more water sources for one. Plus, I have the habit of leaving cups in there – sickly sweet coffee dregs, aromatic cranberry juice fumes – not bad food for a measly fly.

Early morning surgery day, I stumble to the toilet and start my flow before halting it in shock. The fruit fly is floating along the liquid edge of the bowl. I have followed my if-it’s-yellow-let-it-mellow rule, so this survivor is drowning in my day-old piss. I panic.

There’s a sugar-crusted spoon lying in a drained coffee cup; I take the spoon and dip it in the toilet. The limp fly body and a few droplets of diluted urine finally come up with a spoonful. I attempt to put the spoon concave-side up, but the fly-in-center globule has slid to the other side. I lay the spoon carefully on its rim and start blowing gently over the convex side. The fly hangs over the rim and a leg and wing begin to twitch. I rub my hands through my hair and grip the tips and remember that I really need to pee. The fly is shaking a wing vigorously as I slip on my ARMY shirt and get ready to leave – that little bastard better be back up on that window when I return.

Five days later, I’m back in the bathroom having another panic attack. Someone has been adding little pumps of air to the bulging balloon in my stomach. I can’t breathe. I can’t burp. I can’t fart. I keep expecting my foot-long surgical cut to reopen and tear further, split me apart and offer sweet release. My bowels aren’t working. The shifts and twists that my intestines underwent during surgery have caused them to fall into temporary hibernation. Think of a huge, extremely shy slug; if you touch it, then it holds its breath for days and refuses to budge.

What is your personal limit? Mine turned out to be a little over a hundred hours.

I woke up in the recovery room with a nurse named Dawn.

“Annnd how are you?” I chuckled. Like last time, this was good anesthetic. Dawn was blonde, doe-eyed, cute, and competent. She handed me a contraption that looked as if it had resulted from a misunderstanding between a penis pump, a huge bendy straw, and a drink pitcher. Dawn instructed me to suck slowly on the tubular part. As I did that, a blue ring rose in the penis pump cylindrical middle. The cylinder had horizontal blue ruling running from 0 to 2500 in 250 ml increments. I inhaled, and there was a rattling – this came from a flat, plastic extension to the side of the cylinder; it contained a hollow groove with a blue bullet indicator. “KEEP INDICATOR BETWEEN ARROWS” a pair of arrows off to the side yelled.

I more or less stayed in the range indicated by the arrows and made it to 2500 ml. Again. I wanted to Dawn to watch and be impressed. Again!

“I think that’s enough.” The voice didn’t come from Dawn - she was helping an older patient further down the room. The voice came from my right side, and I realized that I hadn’t been holding the breathing contraption during any of my violent inhales. My Mom and Dad were there, although I couldn’t tell which one was holding McBreathey.

“Here take a look at your scar. The Doctor did an awesome job, even put his initials on there,” my Mom said. Someone lifted my gown over my stomach. I didn’t care to look, but I could tell that it was important for the people gathered around me. I couldn’t look. Trying wasn’t painful; I simply couldn’t do it – the sensation reminded me of the time I had fractured my neck; I couldn’t turn my head to the left to save my life. Now, I couldn’t crane my neck or lift myself up enough to stare at my stomach.

I had given my Mom three numbers to call: my ex- girlfriend and two very good friends from college. All women – I think there’s some psychological, evolutionary bent to that for me as a guy. Regardless, it was nice, and I knew that they’d tell all my guy friends. The only person I spoke to over the phone was my ex-girlfriend.

“Annnd how are you?” I asked.

“Fine. How are you doing, babe?” she said.

“Annnd how is your butt?” I continued.

“It’s fine too. I’m glad you’re OK. I love you,” she said.

“I love you too. Bye.” That was about all we said – not because it was emotionally painful but because I was out of breath. I reached for McBreathey. I was only able to get to 2250 ml that time, just a notch from the top. I spent the next few hours in the recovery room, alternately staring at Nurse Dawn and sucking on McBreathey.

I can’t remember much about the trip to the patient room – just traveling through tunnels and my Dad occasionally zipping past on his Segway. The patient’s room bed was twenty times better than the gurney; it was partial memory foam and air mattress which would adjust as I readjusted.

The Nurse who came in reminded me of my overweight cousin. She had this half-sadistic, half-commiserating look that basically said “hurt, don’t it?” She knew her shit, and she was the person who calmed me when I thought that I was suffocating. It was the morning after the surgery, and McBreathey only registered 500ml. I inhaled and rattled the blue indicator until my sternum should have cracked and my stomach burst. I couldn’t get past that 500ml line. I began to breathe faster and got dizzy; when I began to fall asleep, I jerked myself awake because I could feel my lungs shutting off. This went on for a few hours until I started gasp-complaining to my Mom, who’d spent the night next to my bed even though the room had smelled like vomit from the previous occupant. We hit the call button on the bed and Nurse Cousin came in.

“You’re breathing too fast. We’ll take your pulsax,” she said. From what I could gather, pulsax was a machine that took my blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and oxygen intake. My intake was 94%.

“See 94% - you can breathe and you’re getting plenty of oxygen. Sit back. Breathe easy. Push this pillow against your stomach. You’re fine,” she said. I wasn’t convinced but did as I was told. I rediscovered the back of my chest and the base of my stomach. I felt my air just barely touching those regions and that was enough. Nurse Cousin’s seemingly indifferent approach had pulled me back from panic. I could sleep for a half-hour at a time before taking another hour to get comfortable and another hour to relax enough to sleep for another half-hour. And so it went for the next day.

Part of the recovery process was staying mobile. Every few hours I would need to get out of bed and walk. Outside my room was a linoleum-lined laneway that terminated into an atrium centered on a circular counter. I walked around this circular arrangement three times with my Mom on one elbow and a caretaker/Nurse’s assistant on the other with my IV pole leading the way. I was attached to the pole in two ways, a needle stuck in the back of my hand and a tube trailing from my penis.

The catheter was another interesting gadget on my way to recovery, and I was terrified of tripping over it whenever I left the bed. Every move had to be carefully planned. I found that it was easier to rearrange my body by grabbing the headboard of the bed and dragging myself into position. Any movement that involved using my abdominal muscles was wishful thinking. I discovered this the first time I tried to get into bed by bending back at the waist. I would’ve shrieked but the tightness in my stomach made it come out as a muted groan.

Anyway, let’s get back to the tube trailing from my penis; that was the first thing that I focused on when I could walk to the sink and lift up my gown to inspect my scar. The incision was fine, covered in bonding glue with slight bruising branching out from either side, but the catheter tube turned my penis into a fat, gnarled, wrinkled thumb. The third time I got out of bed, my Dad stopped me because I was bleeding. It looked as if someone had went crazy with red food dye on the linoleum floor, scattered droplets unable to dissolve and now forming a collective splotch. It ran down the catheter tube, and we surmised that the inside of my dick was bleeding.

My favorite nurse, Amber, a 24-year-old sunflower with an unassuming professionalism, came in to check the attachment. “I’m glad you’re not shy, since that would make things more difficult,” she said as she inspected my bloody crotch.

“Well, it’s probably better that you’re not shy,” I replied.

“Oh yeah, you have to get used to the visuals and it not belonging to your husband. It comes up more times than you’d think,” she said. Amber was right; I wasn’t shy. I was only slightly humiliated by the withered state of my penis and my saggy left nut. I wanted to say something like “it’s usually more proportionate”, but that would have sounded desperate. Instead, I relaxed when Amber told me that the bleeding wasn’t coming from my catheter; a few inches above my crotch, the last few stitches of my incision had burst.

That catheter wasn’t coming out until I delivered 250ml of pee every 6 hours. The caretakers (basically Nurse assistants) and the occasional Nurse would shake their heads and frown when they came in to empty my urine container. I was not meeting my quota and my urine was too dark. They kept giving me the same volume of IV drip for the next day and a half, and, surprise, my urine was still not enough.

Now, in the event of complete global collapse and a drought, I will be the first to steal your water and will keep guzzling it until you round up your post-apocalyptic posse and shoot me to death upon having reinvented the compound bow. When I try to block your primitive arrows with my chain-blade-baseball bat of unerring justice, my bludgeon of untold wisdom will slip from my sweaty palms. Yes, I sweat a lot, and I drink a lot of water. I’m not sure why this is so and I don’t really care. I simply drink more water than the average man. I tried to tell the caretaker-nurse teams as such in more diplomatic terms. I don’t think we quite connected so nothing changed.

Part of the frustration was that I couldn’t drink any fluids while the catheter was in place, the worry being that I’d vomit and split my scar. Perpetual cotton mouth haunted me for the first 36 hours; I was allowed to suck on ice chips or swab my mouth with a large, Styrofoam version of a Q-tip, but I eventually had to spit out any precious moisture.

Each morning the doctors would visit, and they would always follow the same order: the youngest resident first; the more handsome trainee doctor with facial hair, who looked like the first one’s older cousin came second; and finally, Dr. Chang, the man who had cut me up with expert precision. Dr. Chang was in a conference in Florida for the next 23 hours, so I spoke to the second-in-command.

“Hey, I need more water than most people. Water’s good, I like it. Can we get more water bags pumped in so I can get rid of my man-bag? More out equals more in – well the other way around, but it’s the same really. Can I have more water?” I rambled on, under the conversational effects of my morphine drip. This doctor had met with me before the surgery and had spoken about the catheter, informing me that I should cradle it during my walks and anticipate any snags; it would be my man-bag that must be held close.

“Yeah, we should be able to manage that and maybe get that out in the next day,” he replied. When I received double IV bags a few hours later, I started to realize that the hospital was just another form of bureaucracy; my direct caretakers followed predetermined orders, and the people who issued orders weren’t giving the direct care. Perhaps this is an optimal system, but I wasn’t enjoying myself.

Anyway, the double dose of IV bags led to more, less dark urine. I was soon cleared to have the catheter taken out. Have you ever had a particularly sticky band-aid ripped from your skin? Do you have a penis? If the answer to both of these questions is yes, then imagine someone ripping off a band-aid from inside your junk- it was totally worth it. The act of peeing under my own volition, even though it sometimes took minutes to coax the flow into action, was intoxicating.

I could breathe again (still couldn’t get past 1500ml on McBreathey, but it was a world of difference) and I could pee; the next step was eating. For some strange reason the internal organs don’t respond well to foreign hands shifting them about, so my stomach and intestines took a leave of absence to protest this unsolicited fondling.

My morphine drip allowed for me to control it manually; I could click the button attached to a cord attached to a vial attached to a monitoring system. Each button push corresponded to 1mg of morphine, and the system would override any manual attempts for the next eight minutes after delivery. I went through 67mg of morphine in 3 days, and Dr. Chang would chide me that I wasn’t using enough and press the button as he looked at my scar. I hit my peak-drip stride on the second day and then tapered off when I found out side effects included difficulty breathing and constipation. I remembered that there are different kinds of physical pain: sharp, flaring pain, which includes scrapes and cuts (my favorite); tingling, progressing-to-numbness pain, which includes bruises and muscle aches; and pure discomfort that can’t be embraced or medicated, an itch that can’t be scratched, continuous murmurs rather than punctuated screams – I tried to avoid this last type at all costs.

Part of the agreement of being given semi-solid food was that I’d transition from the morphine drip to oral pain medication. I had only gone through 17mg of my final morphine vial when it was removed; I was saddened that 13mg of awesome pain medication would be going to waste, but I was looking forward to a change in routine. I switched to Percocet; one of the side effects turned out to still be constipation. This was balanced out by milk of magnesia and suppositories; one nurse was squeamish about administering suppositories, so I took the small joy of wiggling my butt suggestively. Hospital meals consisted of sweet tea, broth, jello, and something that couldn’t decide whether it was tapioca, pudding, or yogurt. In my addled state, I thought the last one was delicious; I’d be thinking of the cinnamon, sickly sweet taste when my scar rippled and I vomited several days later.

I was beginning to be able to pee within a minute or less of attempting but no poop. I’m a firm believer in pooping at least once if not twice day; it’s a time to reflect and discard the parts that aren’t doing a body any more good. I hadn’t pooped in 4 days; I felt useless. In preparing myself for the surgery, I had imagined my body becoming streamlined from a limited diet and grimacing good-naturedly at the occasional bouts of ripping, abdominal pain from my deadly scar. Instead, I looked 6 months pregnant as my body accumulated gases and the dull ache in my back and joints overshadowed any respectable twinges of pain. My stomach grew while the occasional dribble of diarrhea or fart offered a teasing promise of further release to come.

And there it was – more discomfort. I had relearned how to breathe and pee in less than 3 days, but my bowels betrayed me. I tried to jumpstart them into action by increasing the length of my walks around the circular desk that my Mom called RoundWing. We started with 3 laps around RoundWing; the next time it was 6, then 9, then 12, then 15. I didn’t do those laps alone. I leaned on my IV pole and either my Mom or Dad would walk alongside me. 15 laps turned out to be too much, and I stayed at about 9 laps plus a walk down and back up the corridor for the rest of my stay. After they took out the IV and my catheter, I could lean on a parent’s shoulder and eventually remembered how to walk on my own.

The stay at the hospital wasn’t entirely bad. My parents were around frequently with my Dad doing the day shift and my Mom staying overnight. There was a TV in my room, and my favorite channel showed nature footage while playing orchestra music. I got to be doped up on top-notch pain medication, and I had phone and text conversations with friends. Some of the Nurses and caretakers were delightful people with senses of humor and natural compassion. I also got to go on my strolls. I’m saying this to try to sugarcoat the fact that I wanted to murder one hospital worker.

She was a social worker who was absolutely useless. “You’re breathing kind of hard, are you OK?” she’d say as I walked past her section of RoundWing. I don’t know if she grasped that walking was challenging with a foot-long, healing scar and that it was a necessary part of the recovery process, recommended by every Doctor. As I began to eat bits of gelatinous food and bloat, my blood pressure went up, and my pulse, which had been over 100 bpm since the first day, climbed to 120 bpm. It was my fourth day in the hospital, and I had decided to finally take a shower with my Dad’s help. I needed something to cover the IV attachment in the shower. (The attachment was left in just in case I need to be hooked up to anything else. I eventually ripped this out, since it struck me as a lazy practice and blood had already clotted in the tube.) Unfortunately, the first person my Dad asked about this was the social worker. She followed him back into my room. At that time I thought she was a Nurse Practitioner because she didn’t seem to make as many rounds as the regular Nurses, and why would someone offer their medical expertise if they weren’t qualified to do so?

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are you sure you’re OK, because your blood pressure has been very high for the last day?” she continued.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said.

“Because your blood pressure being that high could be bad. Are you sure that you’re alright?” Perhaps by switching out ‘OK’ with ‘alright’, she was hoping to trick me into revealing the true depths of pain, the sort of pain that only a person whose medical experience ranged between zero and zilch could fix – my savior! I felt my blood pressure rising.

I reached out to pat her on the shoulder but my hand somehow found its way around her neck instead. My other hand joined in, and then she was on the ground. I squeezed and squeezed while her face went dark red and her stupid, bulging eyes still tried to comprehend what was taking place.

“Are you OK because you’re being strangled? Does your windpipe feel odd? How’s your blood pressure doing? Are you OK/doing fine/getting better/fucking alright!?” Each question was punctuated with a crack, me sense-smacking her head against the floor.

I imagined this and stared into her dumbly thoughtful eyes, hoping that she could see her own death reflected in mine. She didn’t get it.

“Well, let us know if you’re not doing OK, OK?” she said.

“Sure, is there something to cover my IV so I can take a shower?” I asked.

“Oh right, a caretaker will bring that to you. Will you need their help showering?” she asked.

“No, my Dad was going to help,” I replied. (My Dad did actually help me shower, and he said that I would have to do the same for him when he gets too old to do it himself – shit.)

“Oh, I’m sure you’re looking forward to that.” She frowned when I rolled my eyes. I had been classified as one of those unappreciative patients who would only realize her heroic gestures many months later.

A nice part about losing a nut and being split apart is I’m trying to spend less time interacting with stupid people and more time savoring my self-righteous fury. I could complain about other minor instances until I sprout a new right nut, but I think I’ve struck the right balance for now, so let’s move on.

On February 12^th, I was cleared to leave the hospital. The swelling in my stomach kept increasing, but I’d made a few plops which might be called bowel movements. The ride from the Hospital back home should’ve have been about 2.5 hours. We made it back in considerably less time than 2 hours; my Dad took most of the trip at 95mph and would cut off cars in the left lane trying to pass trucks in the right lane so that we could cut off both with an S-shaped swerve; I think he was trying to help me shit myself. We stopped once at a rest area. I walked to a urinal. I had been standing there for about a minute when an old man walked in. He took up his position several urinals down and we both stayed that way for another two minutes, locked in our communion of silence. He left his urinal a few seconds after I left mine; we had tried.

At home, I paced while prodding my stomach. My Mom left to fill my Percocet prescription, and I begged her to buy some enemas for me. The enemas turned out to be little squeeze bottles that I had to insert into myself while pressing my face into the floor – they helped? I took two Percocets and a Lunesta and tried to sleep. I was too restless and kept pacing and prodding. My Mom came in to check on me, told me I was being crazy, said we should go to another hospital for a pain shot, and told me I had to rest. We sat that way for a few minutes, feeding off of each other’s crazy until she asked me what I wanted.

“I want it to stop. I just want to take a simple shit. I am so goddamned tired of being uncomfortable,” I sobbed. At first I tried to stop crying – I hadn’t done any of that in the hours leading up to my surgery or during my hospital stay – but then I kept trying to sob when I realized that the undulations might jumpstart my bowels. When I wanted to, I couldn’t do it. I locked myself in the bathroom for the next 3 hours.

When I couldn’t do it, I wanted to. I began to understand that this held true for my simple bodily functions; a smidgeon of poop would have been magical. For the first hour there was nothing. I leaned against the toilet and smacked the wall. There was movement to my side, above the sink. It was the bathroom fly – it had survived. I chuckled and could pee just a little. I also found out that if I could concentrate on peeing, then I could sometimes poop a little. The next two hours were spent trying other tricks; if I bent my knees slightly and pushed my palms against my shins while holding my breath and straightening up before raising my arms over my head and then back to my chest before squatting suddenly, then I could sometimes manage a fart or a burp. I went through different combinations of these movements and would occasionally see the bathroom fly flitting from surface to surface.

One idea I’ve come to believe to be bullshit is that suffering magically makes us better people. I think this notion can lead to the assumption that more suffering is good for us, that a certain level of misery translates into divinity. I had a diagnosis, an unexpected surgery, an expected surgery, trouble breathing, trouble peeing, and trouble pooping, so now you must address me as lord-shaman. But wait, what if my housed had burned down or I had lost a loved one during all this? Would that make me the arch-duke-high-Sunday-priest-you-have-no-idea-what-I-have-been-through guy? When suffering is given a rank, a badge, it becomes meaningless. So is there some way to attach worth to an experience that I’d rather not go through again?

The bloating got better over the next few days, and it was never as uncomfortable as on that first day coming home. In the weeks since, I’ve saved the bathroom fly at least a half dozen more times. I’m not sure if it’s the same one because now there are multiple flies. I’ve spotted at least three hanging out on the window together. I’ve also discovered that Q-tips are better than spoons for fishing flies from toilets (less water displacement). I had a double save with both ends of a single Q-tip, and I’m continuously surprised by the flies’ ability to shake it off and get back to doing whatever the hell it is that they do. I don’t know how symbolic this is in terms of fly salvation, since I accidentally washed one fly down the sink and drank another that crash-landed in my water glass.

The point is I’ll probably never look at flies, eating, drinking, shitting, pissing, or breathing in the same way. I was surprised that relatively mild, continuous discomfort can be worse than sudden spasms of pain. I’m also wondering if perpetual unhappiness is the worst form of discomfort. I’m beginning to appreciate how much I haven’t appreciated, so maybe that’s a comfortable start.