Blind Tiger

 

Recently, I got sucked into watching a rerun of the original Hawaii Five-O (1968-1980) television series.  Saying that I got “sucked in” is completely disingenuous, because I love that series in all of its ridiculous glory.  I did not grow up with it.  My family did not watch it, but as a twenty something kid, seeing afternoon syndicated reruns made me and some of my friends fans.  We all wanted to be as slick as Jack Lord – I still do!  The crazy convoluted plots and dodgy police procedures were common topics of conversations and debates.  I once called in sick from work three days in a row, so I wouldn’t miss all three episodes of the epic V for Vashon trilogy (long before streaming) and when I fessed up to my manager at the time, he understood and claimed he would’ve done the same thing.

 

An early episode from the series is “Blind Tiger” (1969) where Steve McGarrett (chief of the fictional police unit Five-O) has a criminally placed bomb go off while climbing into his car.  Somehow his only real injury is blindness.  He is hospitalized and helps solve the case of the vengeful bomber from the hospital.  During his stay he goes through rehabilitation to learn to live life as a blind person, and his nurse/rehab guide is none other than actress Marion Ross as Nurse Edith Lavallo.  Marion Ross would later become famous and maybe “America’s mom” as Mrs. Cunningham on the 70s TV show Happy Days (1974-1984).  Anyway, her abrupt approach and constant assistance teaches McGarrett to not only function well without his sight, but actually win a physical fight with the bomber (back to try to finish McGarrett off) in a physical therapy room.  Well, the Five-O team arrest the bomber and McGarrett’s sight miraculously returns and he is free to resume his life of being awesome.  Nurse Edith phones his room just before Steve is discharged and cannot overcome her emotions to say goodbye.  The implication being that she has developed feelings for this magnificent man.  Despite Steve’s urgings, Edith will not come say goodbye in person so he can finally actually see her.  The scene closes with her reluctantly hanging up the phone in tears.  And like all episodic dramas back then, we never hear from her as a character again, nor of McGarrett overcoming blindness.  Ross makes an appearance as a hapless and clueless accomplice with evildoers in an episode a year or two later.

When I was hospitalized for about five weeks a couple of months before my twentieth birthday, I bonded with my healthcare team.  Overall, it was a terrifying and painful experience, but dammit, even though I was in the pediatric floor with mostly babies and very young children as a grizzled and gross nineteen year old, I took great joy when a day nurse took care of me several times for a lot of those weeks.  She would come to my room with an acoustic guitar and sing me nursery rhyme type songs.  She joked that they were the only songs she could play, though I didn’t care – I was simply happy to have her there with me.  I’m sad that I cannot remember her name, because she was such a wonderful and caring person who made a massive difference during my recovery.  My mom was struggling with her health in a serious way at that time and could not be with me very much, so the nurses became surrogates that I looked to for reassurance and support.  I was sad at the time, because when I finally was discharged, I did not get to say goodbye to the singing nurse – who reminded me of my second grade teacher, the perfectly named Mrs. Love.  Several years later I saw the Five-O “Blind Tiger” episode and thought about a few of the amazing nurses who have guided me through difficult recoveries, and a piece of me hoped that they were sad to see me go like Nurse Edith was to let go of McGarrett.  I have always kind of hoped that I’d not be forgotten.  This is neither here nor there, but that may have been the first time I fully realized as a young adult that I wanted to always leave a positive impression onto any and all interaction I have with all people.  Because of our nature as humans, my failures at this goal are the ones I remember most, because I, and I think most of us, dwell on mistakes instead of successes and I hear about it, when people do not like me, but rarely hear about the positive moments (like how a lot of people are willing to complain about poor service, but stay silent when service is good).  It’s how we roll.  Somehow I’ve mostly been able to move on from these intense short-lived recovery experiences and close, albeit mostly one-sided relationships with healthcare workers, as they fade into the past and we’re all onto the next phase of life.  Still the notion of a nurse shedding a tear in silence – sad to see me go – makes me feel important, which is a rarity.

However, as I’ve written about in a few prior posts, over the past two-plus years, I have been focusing intently on the healthcare system to try to improve my physical state via therapies and rehab.  The work has been paying off.  Maybe not as much as I’d like, but I think my expectations are far grander than reality is showing.  Because of this focus, I have been seeing the same physical therapist for about two years and have been doing cardiac rehab twice a week since last November.  The staff have become a family to me and over the rest of this month I am going to lose these connections as health insurance coverage is ending. 

I’m worried.  At the beginning of May, by far the best cardiac rehab clinical exercise physiologist (CEP), Hannah (see here) left her position to become a lead at a different clinic.  Though I am excited for her opportunity, I did not and have not taken her absence well.  There has been no fading into the past and moving on.  On her final day, I broke down and cried like crazy – like I haven’t done before, in my memory.  I continue to get emotional when I notice her absence like when they brought in a new “replacement.”  What a ridiculous notion!  And now, I’m facing losing the rest of the team who have nurtured, cared for, and encouraged me.  As well as providing me with social contact – making these appointments the high points of most of my weeks.  Same with physical therapy.  Saying goodbye to Abby will be difficult.  She’s guided me through a lot of difficult times all while experiencing very difficult times herself.  I care about her and look forward to our conversations during every appointment.  In my case, Abby has been a skilled psychologist as well.  I marvel at her creativity.  I will miss seeing Stefan and Lauren at the front desk too.  They’ve always made me feel welcome and valued.  I will miss hearing Lauren call me “Christopher,” because no one calls me that. 

Writing this out makes this all seem a bit trivial, and I don’t know how I’ve become the Nurse Edith and not the McGarrett in these scenarios.  I honestly do not know what’s going on with me. The departure of Hannah has me concerned.  Makes me think of the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief that we were taught in High School Psychology class, and makes me wonder why I dwell in the first stage (Denial) and then skip to the fourth stage (Depression) and ping pong between only those two stages seemingly endlessly.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been bouncing between those stages for the past 35 years.  I’ve never Accepted (stage five) losing my mom to this genetic disorder that has ravaged my family’s lives.  Perhaps it’s because I skip stage two (Anger), because there’s no one to blame, and the “why me?” falls flat because I wouldn’t wish this disorder upon anyone.  I avoid Bargaining (stage three) for that same reason.  Instead of healing and moving on, I continue flail and feel broken, ridiculous, and embarrassed.

As the month progresses, I am steeling myself for an emotionally difficult stretch and hoping I can focus my energy on continuing my health journey by utilizing the valuable tools these amazing professionals have taught me on my own and not wallow in stage four.  I’m hoping I can muster the energy to keep going at all.  Maybe when the times arrive for these tough farewells, I will be able to keep myself from ugly crying by simply disappearing.  But will I ever be able to accept the loss?  Will I ever be able to see beyond stage four and move on like those old TV shows?  After decades of watching Hawaii Five-O reruns, why haven’t I learned any lessons to be magnificent like Steve McGarrett?

Bringin' on the Heartbreak

 

There’s a scene near the end of Wes Anderson’s 2001 movie The Royal Tenenbaums where Ben Stiller’s character, Chas Tenenbaum, emotionally breaks and says “I’ve had a rough year, dad.”  It’s almost too much for me to watch, and one of several moments during this quirky movie that never fail to get me emotional.  It has always resonated with me in a way that I haven’t fully understood.

 

This past summer, I had two medical procedures to insert five stents in around my heart to clear some blockages.  After awakening in the post op recovery room after the first procedure, my senses were flooded with a surprisingly loud presence of the Def Leppard song “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak.”  In that moment, I could not remember the band's name, so like the nerd I am, I began calling out to the entire Recovery unit - anyone.  I’m certain everyone there was born long after the song’s release, so they weren’t privy to its ubiquitous radio presence during the early 80s. They may not have been old enough to be privy to the idea of radio ubiquity.  My guess is that they were playing some kind of streaming service’s “Heart” playlist algorithm – you know, for fun.

As I stirred back to consciousness from the procedure, my squirming brought a nurse over to tell me not to move my legs, because of the incision in my right inner thigh.  She tied some bedding around my leg as a reminder to keep them still.  She moved to the left bedside and introduced herself as Nicole.  I asked her again, if she knew who did the song that was playing, just as Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” came on.  There goes my “Heart” songs theory.    I guess someone in the room was feeling their 80s hair rock.  Like a drifter they were born to wear cologne.  I chuckled and Nicole asked me what was so funny.  I thought to myself, that it would be fitting that the final flashes of my life would be the music that I couldn’t stop mocking as a teenager.  I twitched my leg and Nicole asked me to relax.  Then she put my left hand into a tight clasp between both her hands.  I could barely make out her smiling eyes floating above a surgical mask. At that point, I knew I was okay and drifted back to sleep.

During my life, I have tried to not be noticed.  I think I’m pretty good at it (see Nowhere Man).  I rarely offer up participation in groups, but if I do, I often try to be first in order to lessen the pressure and be the first to be forgotten.  I try to be as small as I can be despite my size, and I always try to leave space between me and the general public.  I try to blend in as much as possible.  I used to wear concert tees all the time, which would occasionally elicit notice out in public, so I stopped that.  It's not difficult to be forgettable.  I’ve always been generic, because I am.  History and the size of the population tells me so.  There are billions of souls with hopes, ideas, fears, problems, tastes, skills, etc. – all more profound than what I can muster.  It’s an overwhelming realization.  Who am I to believe that anything about me is worthy of notice? 

I get that I have posted these occasional poor health missives for potential public consumption over several years, which is antithetical to my stated efforts to not call attention to myself.  I do not do it for notice, or for sympathy.  I do it to sort out my own feelings.  I write these things to settle my thoughts.  The act of writing helps to calm my anxieties.  Plus, I feel safe in my little anonymous corner of the internet and the mostly abandoned realm of blogs.  If there is a public side, I’d hope to maybe spark conversation about health experiences and health care and just life in general. 

 

Because of the stents being placed near my heart, I was prescribed 36 sessions of Cardiac Rehab, which is comprised of two hour long sessions a week at a gym within a hospital that is supervised by several on staff exercise physiologists.  They keep an eye on us via heart monitors, routine blood pressure checks, and observation.  I love it.  It makes me feel like I’m taking an active role in improving my health and life, which, like the writing helps give me purpose.  I enjoy casually learning about my fellow patients and learning about their health experiences and how they wound up at Cardiac Rehab, and I enjoy the check-ins by the staff who are all very kind and motivating. 

Recently, I was scheduled for an Endoscopic Ultrasound to get a closer look via biopsy at some “concerning” cyst growth in my pancreas.  The procedure is pretty simple, and I’ve been through it before (see Here’s Where theStory Ends).  I know that VHL cysts in the pancreas are benign, but I’m okay with them looking closer to be safe.  A few days before the procedure, while at Cardiac Rehab, Hannah, the best of the exercise physiologists approached me while I was flailing around on a recumbent bike.  She was there to ask me about my daily exercise routine, to take my BP, and to answer any questions I might have.  I reported to her that I was about to go in for this minor procedure, because I had previously been informed that I should alert the staff of any new medical news.  Hannah asked me how I was doing, and how I felt about it.  I think I grumbled something about “futility” and “being tired,” and Hannah retorted with encouraging specific evidence about my progress since beginning the classes, and dammit, I broke!  An instant flood of emotions rushed up into my nose.  It was as if she pushed a button that unlocked a lot of unresolved pain.  Sure, we both knew that this procedure was not serious, but for me, it felt like a breaking point after a lifetime of struggle.  Is this what it means when people say they “feel seen?”  Was this me allowing myself to be “seen,” or was I simply caught in a flash of light before scurrying into the shadows like a cockroach?  

Ever since that moment, I’ve been a ball of conflicting emotions with bouts of excited optimism mixed with total unflinching despair.  The optimism?  Maybe I’m beginning to realize that being seen is not so bad.  That it’s okay to ask for and accept help, and to trust, and to admit that I’ve had a rough stretch..  The despair?  I wonder if I’ve waited too long to learn this lesson.  My efforts to be alone have been pretty damn successful, so now I feel like I’m left with no shoulder to lean into and say “I’ve had a rough year.”