I’ve nearly died now four times. Once when age 26 from a liver collapse that came out of nowhere (I grew a new liver that time), the second time (diagnosed at age 41) from Hepatitis-C, contracted, it is thought, from a gamma-globulin shot in the days before the blood supply was screened (which might have been the cause of the first liver failure, which would put the blame on that gamma-globulin shot the sweet Dr. Jones – his real name – gave me at age 5 for some chronic sore throats back then).
In the last 30 days, during a routine colonoscopy, my body (which I tried to explain runs VERY slowly already) reacted to the anesthesia they used the first time by my throwing up early on in the procedure and their having to stop me from drowning in throw-up (causing the procedure to be aborted and requiring it to be rescheduled), then in spite of that, thinking that my fasting an extra day would resolve all problems, the second attempt found my lungs nearly shutting down and a coughing spasm nearly asphyxiating me. You are not supposed to have to spend four hours on oxygen in recovery from a colonoscopy! I am now on the records that I may never use anesthesia again. (I’ll use the old fashioned “bite a stick and whiskey” technique should I need something painful done to me, with the wooden mallet method in reserve should I make too much noise.)
So, I’ve had a few brushes with death. The first, I was in the cavalier days of youth, invulnerable, and assumed all along I would actually succeed in surviving. The rarity of my spontaneously growing a new liver barely grazed my consciousness, as at that age, OF COURSE something would rescue me!
The second round, in my early 40’s, was not met by as-cavalier a person. The diagnosis was quite daunting, there was no cure that actually, reliably worked at the time, and I spent three years pretty much waiting for it to start getting really nasty. (A liver death is one of the nastiest ways to go, by all accounts.) I had to go through all of those things anyone diagnosed with a life-threatening and most-likely terminal disease has to go through – all the emotions, the remorse, the contemplation of future suffering, and of course, the intense dislike of the idea of not being here anymore. There were several epiphanies along the way, and several wrong turns as I worked out how to deal with it (like being angry about it early on), but as luck was again on my side, in the 11th hour (actually at 11:55), a cure that worked for me appeared on the day that I entered the hospital to accept whatever treatment was available at that time – because my time was up for waiting on a new cure, and it was either start a therapy then or it would be too late to be accepted for any therapy at all. Thankfully, Shearing-Plough (now Merk) had just that day brought into the hospital the combo therapy of Interferon with Ribavirin, called “Rebetron“.
(As it turned out, at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem, NC where I was treated, I was the only patient who completed the therapy to the end and was successful, due to side effects that could be averted by drinking a gallon and a half of water a day. I drank the water. In those days before “hydration” was a household word, Americans literally would rather die rather than drink water! So, I survived, but many, many patients did not, all because they quit due to side effects they could have averted with some water!)
I mention all of this because it has to do with the subject of the title. Having just recently nearly died while unconscious of the fact anything like that was going on, the aftermath has been sort of a “PTSD” effect, leaving me a bit shaken. The first event did not so much – it was understandable, though daunting – but the second time definitely did leave a mark in reflection. My subconscious possibly was fully aware, even if my conscious mind was knocked out. So, which is worse – the anticipation of oncoming doom, or the reflection of narrowly escaped demise? In a way, they are both equally worse!
Complicating matters is that the cough I had before the “lung collapse” event turned into a full-blown issue that I am still recovering from, as my weakened and still fluid-filled and collapsed alveoli (the microscopic sacs that hold the air and transfer it to the bloodstream) and the bronchial regions caused even more coughing, difficult breathing with wheezing, and the threat of pneumonia. All this has affected my mood, I am certain. But it has caused me to reflect on the notion of a sudden death, as opposed to a prolonged and protracted one like I’d experienced before. Here I am, lucky again TWICE in a month to be here at all, but cannot help but be nagged by the question WHAT IF I hadn’t been so “lucky”? Well, of course, I would merely be dead now! But it does make today and every moment lately seem a bit more like a gift. It also is a reminder how far I am from feeling “done”, “complete”, “finished”. I have so much more to do – glad I made it so I can perhaps finish up!
Like I said, when I was in my twenties, even faced with the eminent failure of my liver succeeding in reproducing itself, I felt only inconvenience as my extremely weak condition kept me bed-ridden for an entire year, and disallowed me to work for another year, even though I’d been gaining strength. I assumed I would be well eventually all along, and was impatient with not being able to get back to living! (Out of that impatience came my becoming a street musician in Cambridge, MA who played daily in Central Square each day and Harvard Square every night.) Inconvenience was the key feeling, not mortality as much.
When I was in my forties – this time indeed contemplating dying soon – at first, yes, I was angry about the situation. I took on the persona of an old grouch. Hard to believe, it is so out of character in some ways for me – but I was the consummate curmudgeon, a true grumpy Gus, a “force to be reckoned with”. Thankfully, a few epiphanies took place that cured me of that, and I found deep, inner calm and learned to live in the present – the exact “moment-right-now.” So, the two years leading up to stumbling into a cure were actually very pleasant in spite of my worsening weakness – I even performed again in several public concerts of electronic music with my friend Laura Rohde, and recorded some new music. So, I had time to become a “different person” and be at peace with my upcoming death – only to not die after all! (An unexpected circumstance that actually took several years to get used to!!)
With this recent occurrence – and the reflection of nearly dying (twice) just lately – it is having a different outcome. It has made me return to those epiphanies I had from the Hep-C experience – a major one being not to bother pushing – yet a parallel nagging feeling that I haven’t pushed enough also exists. I feel I’ve been acting like I have all the time in the world to get things done I’d like to have done. Two mistakes by anesthesiologists in thirty days could have undone my doing of anything, and my “legacy” would be that of an unfinished life. I don’t like the feeling of that. Nobody would. But most people do not think about it much, taking on that same cavalier attitude I did in my twenties: everything will be ok – I have time – things will work out!
Unless, of course … they don’t.
