The Meat Crayon

There are coincidences too unlikely to occur until you find yourself in the middle of one. Everything I write today on this blog is as it occurred, as always, and as unlikely as it may seem all is true, as it always is on this page to the best of my knowledge. It just doesn’t ring true in my own head such is the impossible nature of this coincidence.  

The adventure started last Tuesday with my trip out of rehab to the doctor’s office at the University of Miami  Hospital which was  a hellish  journey in a van too small for my 26 inch chair. Never mind all that.  The afternoon van, a bigger machine showed up and off we went down the Turnpike back towards rehab half an hour away. Alex a powerful taciturn Cuban was driving and I was ready to be “home” at rehab in bed.  My stitches were out, my wounds healing and I was thinking about a bowel movement building in my gut.  These basic things are of moment when you live legless in a diaper. 

Traffic started to build on the Turnpike and I had been in my chair eight long hours.  Technically the rehab center was half an hour from the doctors office but that was looking hopelessly optimistic Tuesday afternoon in Miami. 

Alex was an excellent driver with total concentration he made my ride comfortable. He anticipated traffic, left lots of room between himself and vehicles in front and drove with a fluidity that I envied. No hard breaking, ghastly when you’re a passenger in a wheelchair let me assure you, no emotion from the driver watching traffic cut him off. I felt very safe. Progress slowed.

The good news was we were still moving at about 30 miles per hour. Suddenly a motorcycle appeared alongside us lane splitting illegally and at high speed in the midst of slow moving cars that have a tendency to switch lanes suddenly to try to take advantage of openings in “faster moving” lanes. The rider wore street clothes, no helmet gloves jacket or boots. I pointed him out to my wife who was riding shotgun and I reassured her saying I wouldn’t ride like that because it’s dangerous. She knows I try to stay safe... despite this fiasco. Then traffic slowed even more and I thought despairingly about my bedpan back in my room, as far away as the valley of eternal youth known to some travelers as Shangri La. 

My wife snagged the picture above from her front seat view. We nudged our way forward Alex carefully holding his space around the Ford F-350 van. Then a fire truck and an ambulance came down the slow lane next to us. Smoothly Alex slipped in behind them which I thought a mistake and we rode past the jammed up traffic. Turns out he was smart as he must have seen the problem next to the median and when the fire truck turned left and cut off the two lanes nearest the median I realized my driver was a genius. We strolled by as the three left lanes tried to squeeze into the lane closest the fire truck. 

Thus it was I got a good view (and no picture!Grr) of the Wreck.  Yup it was the lane splitter on his black Honda cruiser. His bike was upside facing the wrong way while he himself was sitting up leaning back against the cement median barrier surrounded by of all things a cluster of young Latina women. He didn’t look too bad, me being a very recent judge of such things. The ambulance was deploying a stretcher and back board so he like me was lined up for the ride of shame under the red flashing lights. My wife was deeply impressed by my ability to predict the wreck. I just felt shitty for the stranger. We kept going and after nine hours in the chair I made it back to my bed pan in time. Nice. 

End of story? Not at all. This is where it gets interesting...

So yesterday, Thursday I go off to afternoon Physical Therapy as usual but there is a wrinkle as I am getting an extra hour to make up for the time I missed Tuesday  while at the doctors office. Fair enough and I am impressed by the strict requirements of the Therapy schedule. Turns out my extra hour is with Drew a fearsome man, huge and powerful. 

A gentle giant married with daughters he adores, personal trainer weight lifter and business owner. And he is in constant pain from his love of sports as a younger man. Bones chipped cracked and broken are his portion. Difficulty sleeping is normal for Drew. He is a tower of empathetic strength. To see him delicately helping a tiny shrunken old person and I’m talking in their 90s is to see the gentle giant in action and his thoughtfulness patience and soft persuasive touch with these patients will bring a lump to your throat. 

I’m lucky because I have no spinal injuries or head injuries and my faculties are intact.  All I have to do is wait for the bones to mend. Then I stand.  And walk. Hooray! 

“Did I tell you about my buddy this week?” Drew said to me after he set me some leg exercises for my broken femur. “Went down riding the Turnpike Tuesday.” I asked if it was near Bird Road and he suddenly looked intent. We compared details and yes indeed the squid I saw lane splitting and crashing was Drew’s buddy and business partner. Drew sat up with him in ICU that night. Of all the people in Dade County who crashed I saw his friend. 

The therapist body builders gathered round to hear my version of events as no one knew what he did and he had no memory. Poor bastard. I saw a photo of his raw meat face and they told me of numerous painful skin grafts from sliding down the road unprotected: hence the title of this essay. Only one night in ICU? Me? 45 mph maximum and I’m off my feet for weeks.  Jeez. I don’t envy him the pain though.  I am mostly pain free from my operations.  But life goes on and more people are crashing out there.  Be careful and if you are going to ride badly don’t do it where friends of friends see you.

Folk Art

I swear to God I am taking all the therapists and doctors and nurses at their word: I will walk again. They insist I will have no problem and I believe them. When my pelvis can bear my weight I shall go home and then I will be in training for Broga, walking Rusty and returning to my beloved Appalachia for long hikes with the one I love ( and who loves me demonstrably!). 

Meanwhile I think back to strolling, ambling, wandering, striding, and lusting after the beauty of the Southernmost Key.  I shall grab it all by the waist and plant big wet kisses of joy that I am back better than before and let the fearful doubters be damned. My lust for life is redoubled. Not dimmed. 

Another old friend of mine got in touch and advised she too has been to the hospital for cancer surgery with an excellent prognosis but still an appalling scare. I was glad she reached out to me and I hope our shared laughs made her feel better. I was not such a supportive friend years ago.

So: where were we?  Ah yes folk art. I never used to get out enough before the wreck but I did get to an extraordinary exhibit of Key West Folk Art and I was planning a series of photo essays to illustrate the influence of Mario Sanchez on the Key West scene. Lovely space at the Museum of Art and History. 

Mario Sanchez the influence.  

Can you tell a Balbontin from a Sanchez? 

And another one: 

Lovely stuff and this isn’t all. When I get nostalgic I’ll post more.

A Visit To The Doctor

Like every other thing it was an adventure getting to the doctors office. My wheel chair as issued by rehab is 26 inches wide ( for my fat ass). However it wouldn’t fit in the van. 

Back to my room. Transfer from my wheelchair to the van’s using the infamous Hoyer Lift. 

Back to the van. Horrendous 40 minute ride across Miami slipping down like toothpaste out of the tube. Three stops to readjust me in the chair on the freeway. 

Then the chair transfer at the doctors office. Holy terror standing up and switching chairs under me. 

After the checkup and final stitch removal all is well. One suture suppurating slightly. Six weeks rehab. At least to get my pelvis repaired so I can stand. Fine. Lovely.

However we then discover that the 26 inch wheelchair we brought empty into the doctors office will not exit no way no how with 280 pounds of Conchscooter in it. We ponder taking off the door (seriously!)  and decide to do another exhibit of me standing on one barely able leg clinging desperately to a couple of very strong aides. 

I stand and shuffle the wheelchair comes through the doorway and we’re out. Thank god.
Then the 75 minute wait for a bigger van to take me and the 26 inch chair back to my room.
Please god soon, meanwhile a taste of the world. 

After about 90 minutes a bigger van showed up but the lift was of course too narrow.  By force Alex manhandled the chair onto the ramp and got me in. 

And so home to bed. What a day. 

Who Cares?

I had no idea what would come of me posting a meme on Facebook but it let loose a torrent of comment. I don’t post memes. I sent it to an online friend going through tough times at home. It generated no response.  I thought about it for a day and that flat affect pushed my mind into asking myself what does this really mean? 

I’ve heard it said that people will tell you who they are if you listen.  They sure manage to muddle me up.  I have terrible judgment where my feelings are concerned. So I started to ask myself, laying here in bed, what is friendship? Friendship is how they treat me?  That’s a new one.  Which may give you an idea how naive I am. 

My scooter wreck brought me close to the face of God.  It also brought me face to face with who I am and who I want to be.  Flat affect isn’t who I want to be. I know I want joy.  The bugger is I don’t know how to find it or share it.  To be joyful alone is absurd, the stuff lunatic asylums are filled with all the time. I feel joy at being alive and I now look and see who feels joy with me. If my presence even across the ether doesn’t make you smile then I’m doing something wrong.  I don’t want to run you the wrong way or be an annoying permanent smile on your horizon - the smile of insincerity. I want you to show me your joy. And your sadness and your fear. 

The only television hero I had failed at it. Anthony Bourdain turned his life around saw my world through his eyes and tripped. I can’t afford to trip on my journey out of rehab. Help me step out of my shell. Help me trust my instincts as you do the same.  We can only have a small part of each other but that part should be first rate.  I hope this page will continue to be the best I can do and it does something good for you.  It’s all I can offer.  It has to be enough.  If you know me you know I struggle daily with doing my best and I often fail. It’s all in the struggle and like rehab I can’t do it alone. Whether it’s worth the effort I can only say it is for me. 

Thanks for reading. 

Michael Beattie

AKA Conchscooter 

The Great Thirst

I was living through what was for me, the hardest time in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital.  I called it The Great Thirst. Webb Chiles the sailing adventurer I am proud to call my friend says his worst fear is thirst after he shipwrecked once without water. It is an ever present memory for him as my lesser thirst is the worst memory of all the operations and tubes and injections and bedridden daily repetition of my current situation flat on my back. 

So it happened I was lying on my back in ICU one Sunday morning with intravenous tubes in my arm supplying me food and water and a nasal gastric tube stuck up my nose down my throat into my stomach to prevent my digestive system going wrong even though I was restricted to a diet of ice chips.  The tube is as intrusive as it sounds and all the other stuff hanging off me was so much less than that ducking garden hose giving me a sore throat impeding speech and tasting like sour food and rubber. It was an ever present horror.  I do not exaggerate. Getting it down my nostril I gagged and vomited twice -as you do I’m told- and I faced its removal by it being pulled out like a snake charmer surprising an audience.  What a prospect...

I couldn’t breathe well enough without oxygen. I woke up in the night struggling with replays of the accident. I felt suffocated by the tubes. My lips were parched. Oh yes they were parched. I dreamed of glasses of lemonade. Of cold water. Of orange juice. Nothing alcoholic interested me and carbonation made me vomit.  I already knew that.  All I got were ice chips. Rationed pieces of ice to moisten my lips. I begged I pleaded I moaned I swore I bargained I was the worst patient in the world.  The doctor looked down at me sadly and reassured me one glass of water would do nothing for my thirst as though that would reassure me enough to forget my desire. 

Then Sunday morning came round. And with it a visit from the Catholic chaplain who stopped by. I had, on admission papers confessed to membership in the Holy Roman  Universal  Church and was thus eligible for confession and last rites which these days is called anointing with oil or something rather less apocalyptic than Last. Rites. To be applied before you are expected to pop off.  I dredged up what sins I could recall for the Irish priest all soft pink folds of skin white wavy hair and a reserved manner of the type that tells you humanity disgusts him. I certainly seemed to. It was depressing as he anointed me with oil and told me to straighten up my life. There was no brilliant moment of enlightenment or hope or love. 

My confession was heard, my orifices anointed to prevent the ingress of evil, I was as shriven as I could be. Pure as the driven snow.  So immediately I set  about screwing the pooch.  “Father “ I said. “Could you kindly push that bottle of water a little closer. My wife accidentally left it out of reach.”  Poor man he stood no chance. He helped a fellow albeit fallen Christian to a jug of water -melted cursed ice chips actually- in the name of charity and then hustled off closing the door behind him at my urging. I sucked down the precious fluid my mouth agape like I was receiving an offering. The doctor was right; it did nothing to slake my thirst. But it tasted so good. 

Being human you will no doubt judge me and judge me badly but I ask one thing of you.  Go without drinking anything for twenty four hours and then tell me you don’t feel like an addict, a dope fiend, craving fluid like a rat dying of poison seeks water. Well meaning friends warn me against the addictive properties of Percocet. They know nothing of me if they think I am an addict of pills.  Food? Yes! Water? Abso-bloody- lutely. I was reading a book about the opioid epidemic called “Dopesick” a brilliant read which I have been afraid to touch since the scooter wreck. Perhaps I can plunge back in now. Now I can eat and drink and behave like the nice middle clas boy I am.  I looked behind the curtain of addiction and I did not like what I saw.  I have no doubt neither did you. 

Daily Life, Legless

I spent ten years, from 7 to 17 in English boarding schools which I like to describe as akin to Hogwarts without the magic.  Thus when presented with a plate of institutional food I tend to get warm fuzzies of being looked after.  Beef stew strawberry shortbread and milk. Hot tea to follow.  I’m good, very good. Too bad they serve it at 4:45pm.  A tad bit early...

I sit up a little in bed, not too much as my stomach has been sliced to get access to my pelvis for surgery and I pull the plate up over a napkin and with BBC radio 4 on the miracle of the internet I spoon food and ponder Brexit in my solitary rehab room (Thank you Cigna). Later I’ll have a candy or a Kind bar or something with Netflix on my phone.  Then Percocet. Then oblivion. And no I’m not getting Oxycodone addicted. I am addicted to riding but I want no comments on either please. It’s a lost cause. I’m 60 and I know who I am. 

The break in the day is rolling out for therapy for a few hours.  I come back battered.  I don’t complain but I am as covered in sweat as if it were broga. I desperately want to be able to put weight on my legs.  Even just my good left leg....it will come they promise. 

My therapist Eddy marches people up and down the stairs so they call the contraption Eddy’s Mountain. And then I met Missy the therapy dog who comes by Friday through Sunday...

And there I am stretching legs and arms and building back my core strength; leaning forwards, building confidence preparing to transfer from bed to wheel chair. Heady stuff. 

It’s a learning curve. I met Eleanor yesterday (I can’t photograph patients) a teacher who suffered a stroke. She is 90 years old all wispy white hair and gentle smile who was widowed 8 years ago and is learning to climb stairs with confidence. She is of Hungarian descent and has a wicked sense of humor with no fear of talking of death. We have a date in heaven when the time comes. 

Television news remains nonsense I have discovered now I have access to cable. However Sunday night at nine Anthony Bourdain’s last series begins so I shall be glued to CNN probably with tears in my eyes. Don’t bother calling. His death really affected me. I felt kinship for his outspoken eccentricity I think. 

Get this: two of my scooter forum buddies sent me care packages. Pretty bloody special! And this is the weekend. My own therapy dog. 

Have a weekend everybody!  I am !!