As the story goes, a fellow is haulrf into the emergency room following a horrid auto collision. The doctor does a quick triage, and realizes this is an impossible case. There is massive internal bleeding, and it's a puzzlement that he's still alive.
Not only is he alive, but he is aware of what's going on. He asks the doctor, who says, "I'm afraid you're going to die in the next three minutes."
The patient asks, "Isn't there anything you can do for me?"
"Well," the doctor replies, "I suppose I could cook you an egg."
This blog isn't about bad doctors and bad therapists, although they, like everything else, are subject to Sturgeon's Law. And at this point, I must note that I expect a lot of my readers. If I say "Sturgeon's Law", and you don't know what it is, and why it's almost always true, look it up. And not in Wikipedia, either. Wikipedia is written by fellows in tinfoil hats who are anonymous. You have to ask why they need to be anonymous.
This one time, I will tell you that Sturgeon's Law is that 95% of everything is dreck. Or mayne it's 80% or 85% - I've heard different numbers from different witnesses to the unveiling of the law. And the reason it;s true is that we experience something truly great only on rare occasions, and every other experience pales by comparison, even though it's journeyman quality and crafted with great effort.
I don't make a penny on this blog, and I damned sure try to make it a premium experience for you, but the vast majority of my writing will be, for lack of a better word, dreck. I've had enough experience getting compliments on other things I've written over the decades to believe there will be some non-dreck as well. If not, well there are billions of pages out there for you to experience.
And if you decide I've gotten something mostly right, please comment so I don't mislead others.
I start with my own version of the three minute egg. That's not really the beginning, but beginnings aren't always the best place to start.
I was on my way to the discount to buy a box of ammunition. I had a shotgun behind the seat, but it was empty. I'd buy the smallest box they had for sale, because if you eat a shotgun, you don't need a second round.
Now some people talk of false memory syndrome as if they are experts, but I've never heard one that wasn't full of shit, because I have two different memories of what happened on the bridge, and there wasn't anyone planting those memories.
There was construction there, and I had to swing left to follow the lane. Let's see Boston planes, Chicago trains. Was it Boyle's Law or Charles Law that says traffic should speed up there? Boyle's Law, I guess. And the sun glared off the windshield of an oncoming vehicle. Witnesses said I was accelerating when I hit that van, and decide I must have attempted suicide. I think that's absurd. I always thought my plans through carefully, trying to avoid hurting anyone else. But having two memories, equally vivid, I don't know.
At the time, I was dating an RN, and she was trying to talk me out of suicide when I jumped into the truck and took off. A couple of days later, she was bedside in the intensive care ward. I guess that's one of the benefits of dating a nurse, Officially she was my private duty nurse, I guess.
But she worked at that hospital as well as having three kids. She gave me more attention than I deserved. Frankly if someone tries to kill himself while he's dating you, you owe him nothing.
About my fourth day in the ICU, she told me that I needed to make a decision, and make that decision known. Wreck victims spend one day, maybe two, in the ICU, before moving to a regular floor. I was hanging on. and they were trying to figure out what to do with me. If I wanted to get better, they'd bust their asses for me, and Catholic hospital or not, if I wanted to die, they could devote every bit of energy to helping the people who wanted to get better.
And I'd had no nutrition since I came in.I'd have to think about it, I told Kathy.
When next I was awake, I asked Kathy why I was still alive. She said she figured God had plans for me. Like what? I dunno, she said. You'll have to ask God.
Not much conversation that afternoon - or was it night? No windows in ICU. I told Kathy I didn't see much hope in fighting God. I was going yo have to fight to stay alive. Kathy had to hurry to work her shift. I put on the earphones and listened to a Steely Dan album on my off-make CD player. When I woke up. I was getting TPN through a central line, and a day or two later, they moved me to a med/surg floor.
It surely must have been my imagination. It was probably on the other floor where I heard it on the news that they found the body of Margaux Hemmingway. That was July 1, 1996, although they don't know when actually died. She hadn't been seen for days, and they identified the body by dental records. Was I supposed to finish the life that Margaux ended?
But I had an earwig that lasted for days: Deacon Blues.
This is the day
Of the expanding man
That shape is my shade
There where I used to stand
It seems like only yesterday
I gazed through the glass
At ramblers
Wild gamblers
That's all in the past
Well, I certainly was an expending man, God gave me a mission. All I had to do was to figure out what it was.
You call me a fool
You say it's a crazy scheme
This one's for real
I already bought the dream
So useless to ask me why
Throw a kiss and say goodbye
I'll make it this time
I'm ready to cross that fine line
One of the symptoms of depression - which I'd suffered from age five - is anhedonia. Nothing is much fun. I spent summer afternoons at the gravel pit, swimming hours on end - but I never learned to dive. I thought of myself as a coward because I never cut classes, or tried tobacco. I was 23 before my first date, not because of any prohibition, but because I couldn't imagine any girl would want to be seen with me.
I'll learn to work the saxophone
I'll play just what I feel
Drink Scots whisky all night long
And die behind the wheel
They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues
Damn it, if I was going to live, this time I was really going to live. Call me Deacon Blues. I didn't drink very much but from then on, I was a scotch drinker. Except that the history of Scotland and Ireland.are kinda confused, and I eventually switched to Jameson's Irish whisky from the oldest distillery in the world, so they say.
My back to the wall
A victim of laughing chance
This is for me
The essence of true romance
Sharing the things we know and love
With those of my kind
Libations
Sensations
That stagger the mind
Yeah, that was me with my back to the wall. I remembered one of my first wife's coworkers, a beautiful face, perfect breasts, and blond hair that was long enough to caress those breasts. And the rest of her was equally perfect. This was a woman far more beautiful than Miss America or Miss Universe. And she complained to my wife that guys gaped at her, but never asked her out. Well, I was single now and I decided to at least ask. I mean, she wasn't going to pull out a Kalashnikov and shoot me just for politely asking.
I crawl like a viper
Through these suburban streets
Make love to these women
Languid and bittersweet
I'll rise when the sun goes down
Cover every game in town
A world of my own
I'll make it my home sweet home
But was this my mission from God? I have a relationship worked out where, if I have a question, I think about it before I go to sleep and I awake with the answer.
Steve, I invented sex. Why would I disapprove of it? There's a commandment against cheating on your lover, but none against fornication. You've listened to too many fucked-up preachers.
But I can't tell you what your mission is. You have to invent your mission. You think I gave Kathy a script for talking to you? No, Kathy was just being Kathy - and I'm quite pleased with her. No, you do whatever you decide to do, but I expect you to make the world a better place as long as you live, and I expect that you'll die when you stop.
And after forty years, more or less, of wanting to die, I haven't been suicidal since. That doesn't mean the other symptoms of depression are gone, but it makes a big difference.
A couple of months ago, I got into an argument with a guy I thought was my friend. He wasn't. I said I was going to get rid of the internet persona I was using to post on his board.
He had his wife - an abuse survivor - try to change my mind. Abuse survivors have very poor boundaries, so it's easy to minipulate them, and such manipulation is akin to rape - something nobody should do to a stranger, and especially something shouldn't do to a loved one. But when it didn't work, he reported to the police that I was threatening the death, not of a fictional character, but of my self, getting me locked up for four days, When the hospital decided there was no need to keep me confined, he showed up on their doorstep - and they told him to get lost.
When I was in the hospital, I realized I had three projects that I needed to do. I assued they would all be books, but this one - on dealing with disabilities and abuse - was too important to wait until I got it finished.
Hang in there, and follow the Garden Party Law: you can't please everyone, so have gotta please yourself.
