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Sunday

I'm having a pleasant dream for just a minute, and wake up suddenly.

I am alive.

6 people are gathered around my bed. "What is your name" one asks.
"John Doe"
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".
"How do you feel? Any headache?"
"I feel really good. Can I go home?"

Laughter. "You will, soon." We got the tumor and your pituitary should recover with time.

Smiles all around. I have wires taped to my chest, a tube in either arm, a clip on my finger and to my dismay, a catheter. I ask for water which is promptly delivered. I still have double vision courtesy of my left eye. Despite the fact I seem chained to my bed, I am quite comfortable. Everyone has now left the room, and I'm watching an incompetent family pretending they know how to live in the Alaskan wilderness. Weird; they know less than I do yet are promoted as a 'bush family'.

Monday

Every two hours it's the same routine: I get blood taken, a new IV drip inserted into one of my tubes, an eye movement test and the same interrogation:
"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

I haven't eaten in 5 days but I'm not hungry. Water is my drug of choice; it tastes better than any vodka ever has. Plus I can drink a lot of it and not get sick. But I am cold. My body temperature is 98.3. They tell me it's due to the steroids. I shiver a lot but I'm brought preheated blankets until it passes. I should try to eat.

Tuesday

2 AM:
"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

Maybe I can go home if I get it right? I have plenty of visitors at all hours. They all check my eye movement and listen to my heart. My heart rate is normal, as is my BP. I'm in no pain and I'm ready to go home, but it has finally sunk in I'm a sick man and need the care I'm getting. They tell me I cannot blow my nose or use a straw. I don't mind the straw but my nose is stuffed up and I'd like to clear it when I can. They left me tissues so when no one is around I gently blow. I'm getting steroids, antibiotics, blood thinner, pepsin, stool softener...and who knows what else.

I fall asleep until awakened at 7 AM.

"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

"You need to get cleaned up." I'm handed a damp cloth. I wipe my face and my mustache is caked in blood. It takes four towels before it's clean. I must look a mess even so.

I spend the day getting poked and prodded as usual, just like Sunday and Monday. I want to sleep but it's difficult. I'm sure no one can survive here for a week; the 4 days I've been here seem like a month. I am surrounded by very, very intelligent, compassionate people who find new ways to torture me. I was thinking last week I needed a vacation, but this isn't what I had in mind.

Wednesday

I am in prison. I cannot walk about even though I feel strong enough to. I've started to eat but it's not fun. Food is bad and still has had no taste. Then late in the morning I have a salad which much to my surprise, I enjoy. My first positive reaction to food. By the evening I'm eating everything in sight. Water is still my best friend but I'm now drinking less. The catheter is annoying as it stings when I move. My eye is much improved but I still see two of everything when I open it.

"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

Perhaps if I get it right they'll let me go. But if I get it wrong I'll never get out. I am the healthiest person in ICU as I can take care of myself, I don't shit or bleed on the bed, and I'm not in any pain. The nurses love me.

Thursday

"Mr. Doe, we have a regular room for you." I am wheeled from the basement to a sunny room on the 4th floor. I have less tubes and no more wires. I have an actual door. The bed is large. They remove the catheter and I can now walk untethered and pain free. Well, stumble as I haven't walked much since Saturday. I am ready to go home.

"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

I spend the day walking around my room, like a caged animal. It feels good though. I no longer stumble. Much.

I am now dressed in street clothes with only one catheter stuck in my arm. They now take blood from a vein instead of a tube. I suppose that's progress. I cannot take anything seriously and I am started to annoy some of the nurses. I continue to eat like a horse and even the bad food lends some joy. The sun is out and I can see Ryan Field from my window. I have no pain.

"Everything looks good. I think it's time to say goodbye to you." Just answer a few questions:
"What is your name?"
"John Doe".
"Where are you?"
"Evanston, IL."
"What year is it?"
"2016".

Ah good; I didn't choke.

My ride has arrived and I get a wheelchair ride to the door even though I can walk and even jog. Soon, I am home. I take the weekend off; since I have no food restrictions I have substituted vodka for water. I overdo it, and fall asleep on the couch. But it's MY couch. I look at the TV and there's just one screen. My eye has healed. It snows 3" but I am not allowed to shovel yet. Life is good.

And here I am, barely over a week later, at work. None of my dancer friends texted well wishes, but my g/f called and texted daily. The fantasy world of the club is indeed all in my imagination. I thought my ATF and CF would at least text, but I guess I'm useless to them both. My g/f will never know how much she means to me.