Birth, Birth---And How The Birth Of The Nation Almost Killed Me...Twice!----by Rey Don'tSay, your Saturday Hospital Inpatient

Well, here we are. Sorry for skipping out last week. I’m in a hospital on a cold rainy day wondering if I’ll be able to finish the blog I’m trying to write for you today. It’s not easy. I’ve got a big wound to the bone in my behind. I’ve got heavy drugs trying to control spasming legs. My energy is low. My brain is in a fog. And I feel like crap. I’m sweating. I’m depressed my cancer may be back. This is gonna be just loads of fun, like always. Let’s chuckle it up, right?

Today I have the story of two births. Two origin stories, mind you. And how another birth almost fucked those births right up. I like how subtle my intros are. Don’t you?

Birth #1: I’ve said before how I’ve had a gay birthday. July 4th, 1969 (heh heh, ask the folks, kids) Fireworks. Year of the Cock in Chinese Zodiac, Blah, blah, blah. This is about my not so gay--meaning “happy” this time--birth. In 1969, my family was mostly from around a small deep west Texas town called Van Horn. 90 miles from El Paso to the west, and 90 miles from Pecos to the east, the two nearest larger municipalities. On the evening of July 3rd, knowing I wasn’t due to be born until July 21, a full two weeks away and also my Mom’s bday, my parents partook of the only real evening entertainment (other than the hotel and bars ones) afforded to young adults at this time, known as the drive-in theatre. I think this one only had one screen, and the sterling offering at the time was the already 4-year old blockbuster The Sound of Music. Another gay reference to a lot of mountain-singing Maria’s out there (The broadway version was one of my first cassettes—-don’t look at me like that!) My mother did not enjoy the movie and was restless and uncomfortable the entire time. (I mean, who DOESN’T enjoy those yodeling Von Trapp brats? I mean, really) They went home and knowing the signs of the birth reckoning for being the second time up to the plate as my big brother was already annoying me and was born in the same spit-town the year before, they figured I was shooting down the plumbing very much readily. It was on. Unfortunately, the only doctor in this podunk village was “on” too. On his cups? On his spirits? The only town medical doctor, you see, was located at a pre-July 4th par-tay and was drunk off his professional ass. My Mom said uh-uh. Taint gonna happen. So she, my non-English speaking Grandma, and myself were tossed into an ambulance and off we flew. I don’t know exactly why we didn’t shoot for El Paso at the before-mentioned 90 miles away. We went t’other way to Pecos, also at the before-mentioned 90 miles back down the other way. Pecos was barely slightly bigger than freakin’ Van Horn. They had a horrible man named Judge Roy Bean preside there back in the day. And they have cantaloupes. Nice big juicy tasty ones. Knowing me you’d think I’d shoot a euphemism in there about that, but nope. The place just ain’t that sexy a-tall a-tall.. That’s about all I know of the place. But it’s the place of my birth. Take your hat off and show some respect, by golly! You see, that ambulance went 90 miles at 90 miles an hour to get to the renowned Pecos City Hospital. I ain’t sure that’s the name, I just didn’t feel like tracking it down. What do you think all that jostling did to a little rotten brown baby trying to make a dramatic entrance into the world? Well, the tension certainly mounted in that cruising little box. Now I remembered this next part of the story as my Grandma holding my burgeoning head inside my Mom’s hoo-ha. It’s weird how details are different. You see, when I went through many many many many oh, some more many years of bad mental health problems, my Grandma would touch my head and pray fervently and guiltily (? I always thought), holding my hairy scalp like it would fall off my head. My Mom cleared up this misunderstanding. And, as always, with something oh so much worse. It seems we made it to the world-famous Pecos clinic with time to spare. In fact the baby doctor, sober, I imagine, was too BUSY to deliver me. We had to wait. And HOW did we have to wait? You may ask. Well. Even typing this image is particularly hard. But since you asked… You see the nurse crossed my mother’s legs at the knees. My 9-month pregnant mother had her knees x-ed to slow my coming into this crappy world. Think about that for a second. AT THE KNEES! In an effort to keep me from popping out until the doctor was through with his coffee break or some such. Repercussions you ask? Oh, I’d say there were repercussions. It wasn’t until I was shaved mostly bald the first days of basic training when I was 20 or 21, that I noticed I had a little feature, hitherto unknown, under my hoary hairy black locks. I had a part of my skull flattened out, where it should have been round like it was on the other side. I had a skateboard ramp on top of my head. Now if your mind immediately went to “wheelchair” ramp instead, I will come out of this phone or computer and slap you into next week. That’s rude (funny, but rude). Sigh. I’ve had many struggles with my mind. My emotions. Depressions. Medications. All kinds of diagnoses and inpatient hospitalizations. Most of my twenties and some of my thirties were spent “dealing” with all that crap and trying not to off myself. Some of the attempts were more than half-serious. Could some of this be because a nurse crossed my mother’s knees at birth in the early hours of July 4th, smushing my head (flat) between my Mother’s young strong thighs? I have a water-skier's trick ramp on the side of my head. Fonzie could jump a shark on it. Oh, I would give that diagnosis a definite “maybe.” Wouldn’t you? Smushing my soft head in certainly didn’t help much. Sigh. Birth Numero Dos: This one has a lot of details that I feel need better exploring at another time. I will try to be succinct but import the gravity of this new life beginning. This happened around July 4th, 2015. When I became paralyzed and began a different life in a different body. I was in unimaginable pain. I made many attempts to get help at the VA. I was finally admitted on July 1. I desperately needed an MRI. Doctors, including cancer doctors, didn’t think it was cancer, though I was fairly sure it was. My walking got worse. They made me walk because they thought I was constipated. I couldn’t get in bed or sit down, the pain in my chest, and especially my back were just that bad, so I’d stand next to my hospital bed. For about a week. They wouldn’t give me adequate pain meds because it was just constipation to them. I still needed that MRI. It was scheduled, I was told. But I had to understand. The VA sort of shuts down around July 4th (and Christmas, too). I’d have to wait. And walk. I had a few good friends come to see me on Saturday, July 4th, my birthday. We saw a few fireworks far off in the distance through my hospital window. I stood the whole time. Finally, Sunday morning, the 5th, I got some movement of my bowels. I had to use the walls to help me into the bathroom and onto the toilet. I couldn’t get the nurses to help me. I called Cleo and he came. I was in the hospital room, leaning against the sink, still standing. I felt electrical flashes through my body--2 big ones. Then I collapsed onto the hospital bed in front of me. Cleo was in the room. I was now paralyzed. The nurse didn’t believe me. I’d just been walking in front of him a few hours earlier, of course, and so he kept trying to stand me up. Finally, he alerted higher-ups, and all of a sudden big wigs started showing up. People from several departments. Heads. Admins. You see, now I was important. I walked into this hospital and now I was completely paralyzed. I was made worse, under their “care.” The absolute reason why I was denied any real care during all this? July 4th. Independence Day. The birth of the nation. This national hospital and patriotic VAs all over the nation all shut down during the celebration of Independence. I was delayed the MRI I desperately needed to prove this was cancer. What could have given me real pain meds and real pain control. What might have let me keep my legs if it were caught in time. Fucking July 4th. Happy birthday me. My old body was dead, my new “body” was born. Get out the cigars, boys. We have a bouncing baby crip. So, you see, the beginning of this country, the birth of this nation, almost killed me twice. It caused a country doctor to be drunk and a wild 90 mile ride to a bum city with a bum nurse who smashed my head and likely contributed to a broken mind. And then 46 years later, inadequate medical care and cancer, don’t forget the cancer, contributed to my second birth, the paralysis of my body from my upper chest down, resulting in a broken body. I hate my birthday. Hug yourselves. I have to have another PET scan later today to see if the cancer is back. It’s almost 4 in the morning and I’m writing this flat on my back to keep pressure off my open butt wound. I’m NPO since midnight for this procedure at 1pm, and I fell asleep typing this earlier so I forgot to drink a good amount of water before midnight. NPO means “nothing by mouth.” No food or more importantly, no water. I’m thirsty. My lips are dry. It doesn't help that typing my story makes me cry. Rey Don’tSay

Go to next C7 post