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Monday, July 13, 2020

The Death of Fun and the Birth of Fear

*As always, 90% fact, 10% fiction
Well, it has come to this.....my first sober Lavender Blog post. Because of this fact I cannot with clear conscience sign off as Bryan Metro, thus betraying the persona I took so long to cultivate, so I have created the sober persona: Jefferson Rank. Make sense? Who cares?


Anyway, lets get to the meat. As -jr said in a previous post, I have been in and out of the doctors for the past few weeks.  Here is a brief health timeline: Metro, E First, and Vinnie filmed a JCM Concert For Covid at the Compound that has yet to be posted. I am a mess throughout the thing. You can see when the hernia actually takes place as I attempt to sit down and fail.  The clip should be below




That week I
went to see the doc and he sent me to another doc who sent me to another doc who said it was a hernia. They could do surgery except there was mystery fluid in my stomach and outer stomach so the risk of the surgery not "taking" was high. The pain was so bad I went to the ER on Tues. Day 1. At some point it was decided that I stop drinking and since I have final say, I agreed. A part of me was curious what 2020 would look like from the vantage of a square, boring, shmuck.

The Rehab Diaries- The following may contain semi-graphic material but not really.
Tues. Day 1
i was mentally unprepared to completely stop drinking when I got to the ER. I immediately was zapped with an IV and five blood panels. I was moved to a private room (thank god), but that meant I had to be admitted something I had never done and something else I was not mentally equipped for.
   "I have a bad heart," I try to explain. I also explained my impressive drinking habit I had formed (every day for over a decade and a half).
   "Would you like some Ativan?" the nurse offers.
   "Well why didn't you say so?" I gush. Bing boom; another IV. Out. Shadowlands.

Wed. Day 2
I wake up to discover that I had pissed the bed. I didn't bother telling anyone; just put more sheets on it. The pj's had to go though and since I wasn't expecting to be admitted I had no change of clothes. I buzz the nurse in and tell her that I am starting to feel the Fear.
   "Perhaps some Ativan," a fine solution. My room was outside of the nurses' station so I grab some nurse's slacks. However, when getting into bed the pants split and I soil myself. Now we have a problem with the piss pj's in a corner. So I waddle back to grab a second pair of slacks. A nurse, a different one asks if I need anything.
   "Getting jittery," I improvise.
   "Ativan?" as expected.
   "Great idea! Let me clean up and meet me in five."
As I am scrubbing down a voice says, "Housekeeping".
   "Fuck off, I am not to be disturbed. Bad heart."
Soon I am being carted off for some silly tests and I am zonked out of my mind. When we get back the bed has been made (oh shit) but the pj's are still in the corner, a shameful secret between myself and housekeeping. I tell them I have no idea how I got here and it is starting to get to me. More drugs. Shadowlands.

Thurs. Day 3
The big day where the fluid in my sides is to be drained. I tell the nurse about my nerves going into this and she suggested Ativan. Since the IV was being used to administer a vitamin drip (ha ha), they gave me two high powered shots (I couldn't eat or drink a pill due to today's procedure, not that it would have mattered). We went down to surgery where I was stabbed in the side and a tube inserted. They turned me on my side and ended up with 2 and a half blender-sized jugs of brown fluid. Upon returning to my room I informed the nurse of my fear of infection. New IV, antibiotics. Ativan. The rest of the night I hallucinated that I was at a party at a house and I was the only person in the guest room. Everybody outside the room was too loud and I only got 15 minute intervals of sleep. More loud laughter. One of the party guests comes in my room to take my blood pressure and attach something to my IV. I begin to ask......Shadowlands.

Fri. Day 4
I wake up to two more blood tests. I tell them that I have had enough and I want out.
   "Would you like some Ativan?"
   "I want out. I can't take it anymore. Yes to the Ativan.".
It was at this point I convinced myself that they had no intention of letting me leave. They may have wanted a gland from my neck, a chunk of my frontal lobe, more mystery fluid. We know its not my liver at least. Fucking cults. As I get up to go to my private bathroom I fall straight to the ground. I had lost all control of my legs. At one point I could only walk backwards. Was I carrying Rosemary's Baby? The Doc feared that I may have had a stroke in my sleep during the party last night but that was discounted because both sides were affected. I had to have an escort for the rest of my stay (fucking cults). One instance, was when I had to go to the bathroom and they had to be in there with me. They held me up and I pissed all over the floor while mumbling "Got to get out". They take me back to my bed where I was anticipating stir ups, or at least straps. They said they were working on my papers and hooked me up to a new IV (I didn't even ask) and gave me Ativan in pill form (I could now eat/drink, not that it mattered), and got me a walker. Minutes later I was released, hobbling down the hall, feeling so much better mentally and physically than when I went in.

Epilogue
The ordeal is far from done. It was embarrassing using the walker at Kroger as the handicap generally scare me and I didn't want to see any children crying at the freak in a mohawk with a walker. I should have worn a garbage bag. The 4th of July was laid back with grilling. I spent $50 on fireworks and barely shot any off. The day after I was back in the ER, but for what I honestly can't remember. I remember them putting an IV into my left vein which promptly exploded due to wear and tear. More blood needed so they went to the right arm which also exploded, even worse, sending blood bruises all the way to the wrist. Wait, I just remembered what the visit was for: hand muscle paralysis.  They didn't admit me.
As for the rest of the health side, I still have to see a Gastro-Doc for the stomach fluid and a liver doc which is a lost cause because we all know that's fucked. Right now I'm doing stay at home detox and haven't had a drink in over two weeks. And man, it is boring. And I have hobbies: writing (more on that at the end), hundreds of books (most 1st ed./signed), puzzles, cats. Next up will be at least two weeks of rehab which should be a hoot. How many times will I hear a story of a spouse leaving because of drink? Do a shot everytime! When I tell them I'm a writer I bet they ask me to read some of my stuff. I'll bring the most vile, horrific posts I can find. When its completed I'll probably get a certificate.

You may wonder why I am doing all of this. Well, because I promised some people. Plus, I'm doing it for me. Borrrrring. Let's rephrase that. I'm doing it to see if I can do it. I've said before that my book has been written and anything else is a bonus. I have no problem going to that loud party in the other room that I 'dreamt'. I'm sure I can complete this and when I do I promise not to be one of those sanctimonious poofs saying, "Don't do that. Do what I did. Life is so much clearer, better". God, those people bug me. I've never tried to lay my orders/beliefs on anybody and I wont start now.

As for the writing, well, there is none. I've already covered Covid-19 in a humorous and serious manner, the advertising juggernaut that is Black Lives Matter is something I should stay away from, I could cover the election, but so is everybody else, and the only unique slant would be from Bryan Metro who is currently in a lockbox. Finality is a concept I don't believe in unless it concerns death or bad restaurant food. One positive coming  from the Covid virus is that it accomplished what the JCM couldn't, that being breaking up the cliquey monotony that was the local music scene. I would gladly take depressing virus updates over the pathetic flyers of the same bands playing the same venues. Everyone has resorted to livestreaming from their basements to an audience of nobody. So basically the same as if they were playing live. Thank you my pretty flower bud parasites. (That was sarcasm. Everybody stay safe and if you know somebody with it, I offer my prayers). Even the always affable Woodman posted a depressing statement saying how sad he was that Jack White and Craig Brown didn't invite him to shoot off fireworks at Hamtramck Field. I also saw that this year's Dally in the Alley was cancelled. I'll call that Karma for the years JCM was passed over in favor of talentless, tick-riddled hippies living rent free in an abandoned loft sucking on Fentanyl freezie pops. I would, however, like to attend a protest though. That could be fun and I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities ("Excuse me did you know they guy who drew a hand cannon on the police?" "He was always such a good boy"). On second thought, that could get boring.

Okay, that last bit contained a bit of vintage meanness, but not enough to justify a Bryan Metro byline. Hopefully Born Evil will be around to post mediocre song links and pop culture/political fire while I torture the poor souls assigned to my Group in rehab. Maybe there is still some fun out there. It may no longer drop on the National Affairs Desk, I may have to go out and find it. Stay safe out there. Until then,

As I Remain,
Jefferson Rank (is Bryan Metro)


3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hope you feel better. A person can be sober without being a judgmental dick. In your case, you can be sober without being judgemental (you will always be a dick.)

R said...

Really enjoyed reading this one. Some good chuckles in there. Wishing you the best.

Anonymous said...

I hope there are more of these.

Jukebox