this is in memory of

i sit down. i'm wearing slippers and my hoodie is unzipped and my hair is a mess. i stink. the monkey tilt is pouring out of me.

she is sitting adjacent. she looks at my feet.

"i'm having a bad day." i smile.

she smiles back. i regard her with the cool. late 40s, early 50s. hair impeccably prepared. downtown account payables clerk, probably. it's 8am or so, and i notice that she is holding her right wrist up in the air.

it doesn't look right. i look her in the eye. she smiles.

our names are called. we walk to the loading station for xray. we are lockstep; how did that happen?

unbidden, she tells me that i don't have to explain myself to anyone. i consider how it would have gone had i simply sat down, looked each person dead in the eye, then resumed calculating whatever i had ended up sitting and calculating irrespective of previous events. she is right. we're still walk "yes," is what i end up saying.

we sit down, adjacent, but closer. i smile at her, and she smiles back.

"so, what happened to your wrist?"

it's the same old story. she had her left hand in her purse while walking. she slipped and her right arm came down knuckles first. triple compound jam fracture.

"wow."

"i didn't even feel it. i just went to work. a couple hours later i started to feel it burn. then i knew something was wrong."

i learned later that the burning sensation is the bone marrow entering the bloodstream and the immune system attacking it.

"and here i thought i was tough." she cracks a broad grin and responds. "you are."

i tell her about my day so far. i tell her what i think it will do to my confidence and how my sense of daring will suffer as a result.

"bad things happen, you can't go through life expecting for everything to be 100% perfect all the time. just have faith that tomorrow will be good."

i take it in, then ask her when her injury happened. i ask her because i'm thinking that any surgeon with half a brain would have put steel plates in at first glance.

"3 weeks." she stops. i look her dead in the eye. she knows that i know.

she gives it up. cancer. chemo. depleted heart tissue. given X. her heart grew back. she beat it. she survived.

she doesn't need to tell me that she had a bone marrow transplant. i consider the ramifications. we sit in silence.

she starts talking about her kids, pop culture, yknow, small talk. she tells me about god, and how her faith is what saved her, her eyes clear, her voice steady. i consider the possibility that god has sent me this woman at exactly the worst day of my life for exactly this reason. i cannot totally discount the possibility. i explain why i think there's a small possibility that i've lost my mind today. she tells me that everything will be ok, to have faith.

i ask her what her name is. she tells me. i tell her william, although the rest of the universe calls me will, or casper, or sawseech, or fucking prick, or whatever.

we decide that we should be friends and exchange #s. here we are, both without a right hand, and with 0 pens. me being who i am, i beg her leave and begin to methodically seek out a pen in the most reasonable way possible. i locate a pen, and it's a good one. i tell dude that i'll brb, he believes me even though i look like a psych patient and he clearly needs it. i return.

she is wiping her eye. i sit down and we exchange numbers in a highly unothodox manner.

i tell her about my love for the work of richard pryor. i tell her about tariq, and how proud i am of him. i tell her about the recovery nurse and her insta shittest, and the resultant chop. i cry.

i explain how difficult it is for me to cede control. she understands. i cry again. she cries. some chinese guy in the corrider sees me crying, the top of the food chain 5'11 asian, crying and looks at me. i look him dead in the eye. he looks away.

we sit in silence for awhile. others arrive, and janet seems to appreciate the diversion. i sit and calculate.

she goes in for her xray. she comes out, and the look on her face says it all. i consider offering a hug, but we are now beyond hugs, or gls, or friendly smiles. she nods her head and leaves. i wonder what the fuck i'm going to do now.

i go in for my xray and have my dna damaged for the sake of what i already know, deep in my heart. the results follow soonafter. there is absolute 0 change in the count and position of the sutures.

i stand up and do what i consider to be the next most reasonable course of acion. i considered the possibility of going home to change my clothes but, if anything, shrinks are highly reasonable people. they'll understand.

i move forward, my head high, my steps steady.

-william

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joel

wherever you are

i'm so proud of you

-william

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i give a cabbie 160, make a friend for life, cry 6x, have my rights violated, and get assaulted.

my friend teaches me that it's nothing. it was nothing.

there will be a reckoning.

-w

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I had my shoulder scoped on Wednesday to repair anterior and posterior cuff damage. Here is my account of the experience:

In the days leading up to the surgery I found myself to be hypomanic. I suspect that it had something to do with the fear of imminent death. I send an email to pokerstars support, willing my funds to my brother in the event of my death and then proceed to deluge the forums and this blog with an array of hypomanic diarrhea, which amuses some and irritates others. I think that I wanted to leave something, anything of myself in the world that I could to help whoever might stumble upon it and derive any form of value from it that they could. This, without question, tells me that I want to have children, today.

I win a moderate sum of money, which means nothing to me. I've always found hypomania to be beneficial to my roll.

Wednesday arrives and I find myself to be strangely calm. Still hypomanic, I find it difficult to sleep. I force myself to take the rest. I wake up, cranky and sore. I shower thoroughly and get dressed and grab my knapsack. My brother drops me and my mother off at the hospital. The next few hours are rather boring. Multiple people ask me questions and I repeat myself time and again, deadpan. My mother is chattering incessantly and I ask her to please stop talking. She complies. I close my eyes and chimp down.

The surgical team arrives and I crack a smile for the first time today. My orthopedist is as bright and perky as ever. Amazing since she's completed, by my count, at least three procedures so far today. I remind myself to send truffles, if I live.

I check out the surgical assistant, and she's rock solid. A younger, slightly more enthusiastic version of my orthopedist. I'm helping to train this person to become the orthopedist to the next generation. Fantasic. I turn my eye to the anesthetist and I'm satisfied. He has the hands of a poker player, and I doubt that he's ever made a false move in his life.

I'll probably live.

A small bag of an obscure substance is attached to my IV.

My orthopedist and the anesthetist vanish like ghosts. Where did they learn to do that, at ninja school? Damn, this stuff is good.

The surgical assistant remains to walk me to the bay. My head is high, my steps steady. She's old hat, and has probably seen her fair share of running. They don't do that where I'm from. Didn't she get the memo?

They direct me to the table, and I comply. They hook me up to the stations, and I notice that the beeps are frequent. I breathe deep and easy, and the beeps slow.

Someone new arrives. This must be the gas man, because all activity has ceased and everyone is smiling. This must be in the manual. Send the patient off to lalaland with a smile. I play along, and remark that this is just another day at the office for me. The assistant replies that they're trying something new, that they're going to do this without anesthesia. I ask if it's the year 1400. She says no, it's 1500. I smile.

"This is the part where I go to sleep."

The mask comes down and I no longer exist, with a smile.

//

I have the shadow of a memory of words being spoken, joviality, and being physically manipulated.

I'm back, with a start. I gulp down the O2 like it's water. More. Must have more. I can't see anything. Oh, right, eyes facing in that direction. Fuck me. Where the fuck am I?

Oh, right. OK. I'm not dead, or at least I think that I'm not dead. If this is hell, then it's 4:05 and unusually cold for the season.

I play a game of tug-of-war with the nurse assigned to my station: I pull the oxygen mask down and cough up phlegm repeatedly and, for lack of recourse, swallow it, and then I forget to replace the mask. She puts the mask back in place. Repeat.

Eventually I regain what she must have regarded as consciousness. She titters around at the head of my bed. I make movements to try and sit up, which is hard because my right arm is mummified or entangled in some form of obscure swaddling, or so I think. She asks me if I want to sit up and I say yes but it comes out sounding more like urgghz. She takes that as an affirmative and elevates the head of the bed. I try to thank her, but end up saying erekro.

The nurse assigned to my station sits upright at the foot of my bed and observes me with what can only be described as the cool. I've noticed that my throat is sore. I'm still coughing up phlegm, but at reduced intervals, and now have the wherewithal to remember to replace the mask myself. Her gaze never falters and she makes no false moves.

It suddenly occurs to me that I'm thirsty, and so I ask if I could have a glass of water, please, only to then remember that all I'm permitted to have is ice chips, because I've been around the block a few dozen times. The other nurses laugh as one, but my assigned nurse merely cracks a brief smile. One of the others remarks that I've phrased my request interestingly. My assigned nurse offers ice chips and I accept. She runs off to the ice chips store and comes back and feeds them to me and they are delicious.

A few minutes pass and I begin to experiment with the concept of oxygen mask removal. My nurse makes no move to intercede, letting the now fully conscious me be the judge. She occassionally offers me the gentle reminder to breathe deeply, which I gladly take on the occasions that I have forgotten to breathe. At one point she informs me that my O2 stats are a little low, her words not mine, and so I put the mask on and concentrate on sucking oxygen for as long as I can stand it.

Eventually I find that I can successfully oxygenate on my own. My nurse stands up and makes a beeline for my right shoulder. I lean forward. She guides me to a slightly more forward position and checks what I now identify as compress bandages, a kilometer of tape, and a really snazzy jet-black sling. "There's some minor oozing," she says. I glance backwards, not to see anything in particular, but more to acknowledge the awesome fact that I have now oozed. I hrmm it, and she adds a couple more bandages and tapes it up nice and snug.

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i'm really proud of myself today for holding my game together through what was an interesting sequence of events. i even took a break during the worst of it, came back, and felt myself to be completely under control.

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i fucking suck at cash

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fuck this shit

it's been fun

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danissimo yogurt is delicious

eat it

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winning $ at showdown is for pussies

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staufer: ok. thanks
sawseech: u germany?
Dealer: Regular time for player duncsharp has expired, TIME BANK has been activated
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staufer: munich in germany, yes
sawseech: ah
Dealer: staufer, it's your turn. You have 8 seconds to act
sawseech: germany porno good
sawseech: teenie teenie
Dealer: duncsharp, it's your turn. You have 8 seconds to act
staufer: gina wild
sawseech: !!!
sawseech: :D
Dealer: Game #15043137781: staufer wins pot ($2.40)
Dealer: RblMsclk, it's your turn. You have 8 seconds to act
Dealer: Diiiiiiiiice, it's your turn. You have 8 seconds to act

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