Yesterday morning, I was thinking I would go for a swim in the afternoon, something I have only recently added to my neurotic regimen of activities. I keep a suit, a towel, goggles, cheap slippahs and a 3 gallon tank of water sitting patiently outside on my small lanai. I keep the water, because my hair cutter told me that I needed to pour fresh water over my head before going in the surf and after getting out. It keeps the salt from seasoning my head dress and few things are more important than my albino mane.
So, I got home in the afternoon and decided I would write about my 60th celebration of life instead, which seems to be how my relationship with writing goes. it is like this creative hooker, capable of shit canning whatever plans I may have had, turning on the dime. I am sure many of you have this internal thing that preempts wherever you happen to be at a given time and the next thing you know, your are combing your hair or trying on a pair of five year old jeans. Do you know why you do this, just because, that’s why.
Now, you may be wondering why the hell would I capriciously decide to write about the start of that decade? You see, this is why story telling is such a wonderful exercise for me and you. My girl friend, yes it is OK to use those words even at my age, is having her 60th birthday this weekend. Initially, all I was thinking about was what the hell was I going to do for it? Then, the writing thing kidnapped my mind and a story bombed into focus.
I had a bona fide Celebration of Life for my 60th birthday, back in May 2005. I even printed invitations and handed them out, along with whatever I could do electronically. As a former concert promoter, amongst other things, I was really good at putting shit together, believe me. My youngest son and his soon to be wife, rented one of those grossly over priced houses at Kukuiula Small Boat Harbor and it was a beauty, pool and all. I picked a Sunday, primarily because it was when my relatively new found biker family, the Sons of Kauai, got together. In my relatively short time here, I had done a terrific job of making all sorts of acquaintances, an incredibly eclectic group, many of whom showed up that day.
In February of 2005, I came within inches of dying. I had been living on the island for almost two years and was feeling pretty settled in. I had long ago accomplished my three Kauai goals, a tattoo, a motorcycle and a kayak. I figured getting into the six person canoeing challenge would get me even closer to the “native” experience, God help me. I went to Hanamaulu Bay one night each week and went out with a group five, seriously Type A aggressors, paddling my ass off for no apparent reason I could discern.
I want to tell you Kauai is a state of mind and it is not something you earn, it is something you wear. On one of those fascistic evenings, we were out in the bay and capsized, trying to outrun a devouring wave. I was catapulted forwarded, slamming my shin on the bench in front of me. I swam in the filthy water of this bay, with the sheath of my bone drinking in all the poison. In shock, I drove to the ER and had some idiot doctor clean it and stitch it, providing no antibiotics to compete with the fecal bacteria proliferating in this body of water.
Now, I could write several thousand words about the hell I endured, but that is not how it works in this impatient medium. So, let me just give you the Cliff Notes, as long as you know that I endured a kind of pain that kills. I ended up in the hospital for two weeks and had three awful surgeries, in an effort to quell an infection that seemed to speak its own language, deaf to the scalpel of the cutters. After being told I should have lost my leg and more than likely died, I left and went home for a month of the most extraordinarily painful experiences that I will spare both of us from the recounting. I lived on crutches, unable to keep my leg down for more than ten seconds, before the pain stole my breath.
After a month of torture, I returned to the hospital for a skin graft. Some skin was shaved off my thigh and sewn over the unhealed wound on my left shin. There was more convalescence involved with this as well. I just have to tell you this one part. A plastic mesh was placed over the thigh, where the thin layer of skin was removed. Over time, my skin grew into that mesh and it needed to be removed. I have just burst into tears, because I remember sitting in the tub and ever, ever so slowly peeling off the mesh. It was then and it is beyond my ability to touch, let alone share with you.
I spent several months rehabbing my leg and the rest of my body. I had a solid exercise regimen before the accident. It is amazing how quickly atrophy sets in. I wanted my life back very badly and I worked incredibly hard to retrieve it. It is an equally long story, the other half and maybe for another time.
The next thing I know, I am thinking about being 60. I started running again, not going more than a block at a time. I could do a fraction of my yoga practice. I started doing my morning Zen sit, without screaming in pain as my legs rested in a long, familiar position.
It took me many months to realize that Death was in my room during those first two weeks in the hospital. We spent a lot of time together and I am not about to claim we became friends, because it is no friend of mine, then, now or tomorrow. Let’s say we developed a respect for each other and made a temporary truce.
What I had to come realize is that I was given a priceless gift. The experience with my leg was kind of like a crucible, forever altering my inward view of absolutely everything. I was incredibly happy to be alive and even though I was still struggling to repossess my body, my 60th birthday was coming up and I never felt more like celebrating.
Life is such a precious gift and nearly losing it and fighting with all my heart to get it back has made me celebrate each sunrise.
Happy Birthday Laura.
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