It’s been a month since I last posted. Not because I’ve been stagnant mind you, far from it. I’m having problems gaining internet access at the campground – all I need is a computer geek to help me out but time just slips away. I figure the best way to explain is to state what I learned:
*Best laid plans of mice and men: The idea was carefully planned out: segue from the corporate world to self employment; from disability to health; do what would make me happy, and for once in my life put me first. The idea was to spend the summer at an all male camp, and to fully understand my lot in life. All I had to do was renegotiate custody of the kids, finish a rehab project at my brothers, get my sisters rental units ready for the summer season, move out of the rented room, then have the freedom of a summer in the sun, in the best shape I’ve been in years. As of today I’ve accomplished everything, yet not without curveballs tossed at me: long 14 hour days, lost time with the kids, and illness and pain that at points seemed unbearable and I begged for death. I write this passage from my hospital bed, my third time in, fighting a serious infection from my recent surgery. I have two gaping holes in my stomach and it hurts like hell when the dressings are changed.
*I will never understand women: When I got divorced lesbian friends offered me a room. Things went fine, I fixed up the house and they always loved my work. Every other month I would ask the same question: Am I staying too long? Do you need your space back? They would always rave “No! You’re like family, my mother feels safer knowing that you are in the house”. Never being very good at handling compliments, I switched my game plan, and told them I wouldn’t ask anymore, just let me know when this “free rent for handyman chores” gig should end. Indeed we were family, told our intimate secrets, and went out frequently to dinner. I never used the kitchen, and respected my room in the cellar. In January, shortly after I spent a good chunk of change remodeling my room, they let me know it was time. No problem, and although I was going to move out within the month, we reviewed what additional handyman jobs would be accomplished, and they suggested a move out date of six months. I said no later than July 15th, mainly so I could spend the rest of the school year with the kids sleeping over on Wednesday nights, and also I didn’t want to drag this on and risk losing a friendship.
But the friendship seemed to quickly turn cold, I just don’t know why. I completed many jobs, to rave reviews from the girls, their family and friends. I kept my distance, giving space, usually just staying over Wednesday nights to be with the kids, the rest of the time staying in south Jersey. In May, I had to finish my brother’s house at the shore, get the rental units ready for township inspection, and set up my site at the campground. The day I found out the surgery date their mood turned dark: I had a little over one week until my surgery, yet I was told that in the interest of preserving our friendship, could I move out before, finish a faux stone face project in the wine cellar, and as a “extra” quick aside could I paint the trim on the deck and fix a small plumbing problem immediately because a photo shoot was being done in the backyard. The stress was incredible needless to say. I accomplished it- sans sleep. Items were broken in my quick move, but I cleared out, and the stonework job came out beautiful. But the stress got to me and I had an attack three days prior to my surgery. I proceeded with the operation with an inflamed colon, and the surgery extended from an anticipated one hour to six hours….They wrote a heartfelt e-mail thanking me for the beautiful stonework job, but gosh, they live less than a mile from the hospital, I’ve been here eight days, why no visit? I called them, but no return phone call or card.
*My true friends are less a month old: I have never felt so vulnerable in my life, never so dependant, never in such lack of control. When the hospital released me I went to Mom & Dads condo. But they are elderly, and they worry, and I felt like I was kicking Dad out of his room. I went to my sisters, but it was the weekend, and the nieces and nephews were coming down from college with their friends to party at the Jersey shore. They didn’t need Uncle Dan hobbling around clutching his gut during the first big party weekend of the season. So I went to the campground.
The owners told me to take it easy, that everything is covered. Yet it was obvious the younger guy was hurting real bad from an old neck injury, and still he worked. I stunned “Butch” when I walked up to his cabin, I wanted to tell him I was on my way but the cell phone battery was dead. He greeted me so warmly and from that moment I knew I made the right decision, even though I almost fell asleep at the wheel on the three hour drive up. He spent the weekend taking care of me, at one time I almost fainted, and my JP drainage line became clogged. He stayed close, and having someone to lean on was a first for me. In all the years I was married I never let my guard down, or tried not to. I would push her away and frankly, she would never try to push back. The weekend was cold and rainy, Hook hugged me, and I had the best sleep since I saw him last. I stopped worrying.
Sunday night Butch had to leave, and I didn’t realize how badly infected my JP drainage wound had become. A doctor was staying at one of the sites and told me to call my surgeon immediately. The surgeon said it should be ok, but to go to the emergency room should the pain get any worse. By midnight I was crying in pain. In the morning I asked my neighbors across the street for help. My sheets were wet from sweat, and the guys had to physically support me when I took a shower. They helped dress me, helped me walk to the owners cabin so I could say I was leaving. I refused their repeated requests to drive the two hours to the hospital. From the owners to the perms and of course to Butch, I found more than just respect, more than just support – I found love.
*I married a selfish woman: Talk about the pot calling the kettle black eh? I’ll save for future discussion the daily torture I put myself through for refusing to recognize my homosexuality, and choosing to bring children into this world. But I have helped many, which can never be disputed. I’m the guy who stops to change your flat on the interstate, and the guy who is there with his van when you need to move, no matter how many times. I took care of her elderly aunts for years, and tended their properties. I still fix anything that is wrong with the house or car. When we were married and she was sick and hospitalized for months I had the children at her bedside daily. She appreciated it; I know this because she told me so. I gave her everything in the divorce and she realizes it. The house has tripled in value in the last four years and that equity is hers to keep, while I am homeless, and yet I have never failed to meet my support payments – even by a day. Yet she lives only 2 miles from the hospital and she couldn’t even find the time to drop the kids off for half an hour to visit me. If there is anything she should know after 14 years of marriage is that the worst thing that could happen to me is to be caged in a hospital cell with nothing to do. Hey, toss me a bone here, at least let me see the kids that I spend each day thinking about, worrying about. That is just so wrong.
*I’m stronger than I think: Even though I’ve lost 50 pounds and all my muscle tone. I’m down to 175 pounds – high school weight. I hate pain, yet I just changed my wound dressings by myself – sticking saline saturated gauze more than an inch into my stomach. I hate blood and guts and I still cannot believe I did this without passing out. The doctor said I could go home and have a visiting nurse change the dressings. But I’m homeless, and I don’t want to spend more than a few days dependant on anyone. So no visiting nurse and I gotta do this myself. I did it, the night nurse said I did a good job, and I’m proud.
*My daughter is stronger than I will ever be: She’s 14, and already I’ve had to remind young men at least ten years her senior of this fact. She won the gene pool – tall, blonde, blue eyed, athletic and a straight “A” student. I went to pick the kids up for dinner on Wednesday. When I got out of the van I noticed a stain on my tee shirt where the doctors removed the JP drain on Monday, and my stomach was swollen. By the time I walked into the kitchen something was wrong, and she pointed to my shirt in wide eyed amazement. Blood and pus and a grey smelly goo was pouring from my wound like a faucet, down my pants, splattering on my shoes, the kitchen floor and the parquet dining room wood. “Oh Shit!” is all I could mutter “I’ve got to get to the hospital!” She grabbed a blouse from the laundry pile and held it against my bloody shirt and guided me to the van. On the drive over I prepped her to call 911 if I needed to pull over. She took my wallet and insurance ID card, and made phone calls to family members informing them that we were on our way to the emergency room. The whole time she remained calm and composed. At the hospital I looked like I had been shot, and security guards came running to help. She stopped them and calmly explained that my colon had ruptured (we later found it was only infected) but maturely asked them to let me pass so I could get to an ER nurse. We were quickly ushered to a private room where she gave the nurse my insurance information and expertly explained what had transpired. She then called her mother and asked to be picked up on the way home from work. I witnessed my daughter turn from a happy teenager to a mature adult before my eyes.
