Here is a definition of Only: “On-ly: and no one or nothing more besides.”
If we follow this definition of “only” to its logical conclusion, “only human” could be an oxymoron, kind of like Progressive Conservative or Artificial Intelligence. But then it is easy to play with the meaning of words, much like a potter plays with clay. Indeed, just as the potter’s hands and the wheel shape clay, so do our actions shape the meaning of words. Hence, terms like Scope of Practice have become a synonym for BEAUFUCKERY thanks to the actions of some “onlys” who could not see or think beyond their fear enough to be human. Fear inspires stupidity.
Where denotation ends, a world of connotation begins.
On the flip side, I learned that “only human” is also a phrase that angels use to disguise themselves as human. I also learned that love and courage cannot share the same elevator with fear and stupidity, so someone has to take the stairs.
When my neighbor, Jerry, locked me in the back of his car to drive me to the hospital, I cursed him.
The week before, I had been a guest of Foothills Hospital and was sent home with a diagnosis of Giant Cell Arteritis. The immunologist forgot to order a CT scan before putting me on a massive dose of prednisone that had pesky little side effects such as osteoporosis, cataracts, diabetes, and immune deficiency. I wouldn’t have minded the prednisone if it had stopped the blinding headaches. It didn’t. That said, the immunologist was only doing his best– or not. It was the Thursday before a long weekend, and he wanted to beat the traffic and get to his cabin in Windermere. Some would say he was only human. I can’t imagine the humiliation he felt on Tuesday when he returned to work. A month later, someone made him call me at home to apologize.
That poor bastard was a different type of “only Human” than Jerry.
But I digress.
On the evening of May 23, my neighbor, Jerry, dropped by my farm with some of his wife’s meatloaf. I had just finished feeding the horses, and I was walking down the path from the barn to the house. Okay, I was staggering. Alright, my eyes were squinted shut, and I said “Good Morning Jerry” when in fact it was evening, but I wasn’t having a Goddamned stroke. So when Jerry said, “Get in the truck; we’re taking you to the hospital.”
I said, “Stroke my ass, Jerry. I’m not having a stroke. I’m not leaving the farm, and I am not going back to the hospital.”
Jerry, short, balding, and normally soft-spoken, runs a really big oil company. He is used to getting his way.
I bought 10 acres of Arboreal Forest when I was 57. I hand-cleared the deadfall, fenced the perimeter, built a barn, and then built a house. I’m only 4’10”, and I am used to getting my way.
So who won this Mexican stand-off and at what cost? It is the cost that haunts me.
Jerry eventually won because the stakes were higher for him. Jerry’s 1st wife died of an aneurysm in the passenger seat of his truck. He couldn’t get to the hospital on time. His second wife’s adult daughter had been shot to death five months earlier. Jerry never liked gambling, and he was fresh out of patience for people dying on his watch.
I will never know what that night cost him. Sometimes, I try to imagine. What I do know is that Jerry had been hurting for months, and my blunt and defiant refusal turned up the volume.
My defense, if there is one, goes like this. When I came home from my first week at the hospital, my farm was a wreck. My aging Dutch war horse was sick with colic, and her handsome black head was now completely gray. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“And besides, Jerry, what is the point of going back to the hospital. I asked for a CT scan the last time I was there, and they wouldn’t do one.”
Dare I take refuge in the excuse that end-stage brain tumors cause personality changes—in my case, belligerence. In the end, the tumor was choking my right optic nerve, my Vagus nerve, and my carotid artery. Inadvertently, I learned that when you are chronically ill and don’t know it, belligerence can become a daily practice like yoga, meditation, and cooking organic food.
But none of this lessens what Jerry and Donna had to endure. Any way you skin it…This is the night I was “only an anal orifice”.
Jerry did what he has probably always done to make his oil company run like a Swiss Watch. He appeared to capitulate and brokered a deal.
“Donna and I will take care of the horses and the farm until you come home. Now, write a list of what needs doing.”
Jerry folded the list and put it in his breast pocket. “Get in the truck.” His voice was calm and even but encased in steel.
FYI: when I got home, my house was cleaner than it had ever been and the Dutch war horse had turned into a 1200-pound lap dog–as if they didn’t have enough to do. Jerry never breaks his word.
We arrived at Foothills Emergency at 7 P.M. For 12 hours, Jerry repeated two sentences to every medical professional we encountered. “I believe my neighbor is having a stroke. Please do a CT scan.” And Jerry, being Jerry, got what was needed.
At 8 A.M., the following morning, after consulting with a radiologist, a young resident came to my curtained cubicle, the white mask highlighted her red eyes. “Where is your neighbor, Jerry?”
“He had to go to work, sleepless, unshaven, and reeking of sweat. Big meeting downtown. We have been here all night.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this with a mask,” she said.
I had removed mine hours ago. She removed hers, and now we were co-conspirators playing strip beaufuckery.
When she took my hand in both of hers, I understood why her eyes were red. “We found a mass on your brain, and we don’t think….” Her flowing tears completed the sentence.
My first response was relief. Now I knew what was causing those fornicating headaches. Terminal meant I didn’t have to put up with them much longer. Often, living with an ailment is worse than dying from it. Then I smiled, “Good thing I took an early retirement and built my dream in the forest.”
“I would ask if there is someone you could call, but—“She wiped back her tears.
“Only one designated visitor per patient,” I finished.
I was later described at rounds as “strangely euphoric”. I let that resident know that her voice carried quite far down the hall.
Dr. Fadey, the neurosurgeon, had the balls of a bull rider. “I would like to try, but there are risks,” he said.
“I’ll save you the grocery list. This is the deal. You can try, but if there is any chance that I am going to come out of the surgery crippled or Gorked, you slip with the scalpel or trip on the electrical cord. Deal?”
“Ahh,” I still had enough vision to note the sweat soaking the armpits of his blue scrubs.
“If you renege on this deal, you will have to deal with my sister, Sandi. I think you should know that I have had a frank discussion with her. She lives in Scotland, but she is in transit to Canada. Just so you know, the closed border didn’t even slow her down. You might want to think about that. If you don’t like option A, option B is no surgery.”
Poor Dr. Fadey nodded and swallowed. We shook hands.
I guess the story of the surgery could be kind of interesting, like a good episode of Grey’s Anatomy, but that’s not the real story.
I have barely mentioned my sister because it hurts so much to imagine her ordeal. Sandi endured quarantine and unwanted vaccinations to get into the country. I envisioned her packing my birthday presents the night before she left, crying and wondering if I would be alive to open them when she arrived. I know my sister. She blew her “only human” disguise years ago.
Although Grey’s Anatomy is a nice feel-good TV show, the real story isn’t the clever doctors. The real story is, how do we atone?
My return from the sweet and peaceful near-death experience of eight hours on anesthesia was a reluctant return. I swam to the surface of pain and glaring fluorescent lights. It was a need for atonement that drove me. Yes, I had to learn how to walk without my left toe tripping me up, and the persistent drool from the left corner of my mouth was embarrassing. My driver’s license and chainsaw were confiscated until I recovered. Three months of no horseback riding and no beer left me crankier than a menopausal grizzly bear. But I had the easy part.
My sister had to deal with a bitch-on-wheels. The surgeon got the tumor, but the habitual belligerence took longer to fade.
Now I can laugh and complain that I have a screw loose. It sticks out a little and digs into my scalp when I tighten my firefighter’s helmet. This is a good joke at the fire hall because they think I was demented to join the fire service at age 65.
I have been able to leave most of it behind me, except for the “only humans”. It is always the “only humans” who have to watch helplessly and wait. Their pain haunts me still. How do I atone for the carnage wrecked on their hearts?
I used to wonder, with some disgust, why people would accept cancer treatment if they didn’t want it. Just die and be done with it. Right?
Now I get it.
It’s the “only humans”, the ones who could be left behind, that we can never abandon.
This was written by our contributing writer, Jane Corkish.
Image Source: Pexels, mododeolhar
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