Three months ago, I was awakened at 3:30 am.
It didn't take all that much, as I had been awake most of the night.
I took a quick shower using anti-bacterial soap and quickly got dressed.
It was an hour's ride to the hospital.
I remember that ride as we drove through the dark.
I looked off in the distance at the lights toward the city.
I felt like an old hound dog that was being driven to the vet for its last ride.
I wondered if they knew somehow that they weren't coming back.
I wondered if I was.
I had my doubts.
I had, days before, signed away everything I owned
Just in case.
It would be easier I felt if things didn't go well.
At some point, it's too late to back out.
I had promised that I would go through with the surgery.
I was up against the ropes, after all, and almost out of time.
Still, I wished there was a way to postpone it or another way out.
There wasn't.
I arrived at 5 am.
It didn't take long for them to call my name.
I tried to not feel numb.
I'm not sure if I fooled anyone.
All that surgery prep became a blur.
This person in, this person out. I just did what they asked.
And finally, it was time to say 'goodbyes'.
I tried not to feel overcome with emotion
It felt like it was for the last time.
I was alone.
If you've ever faced surgery, you know that every 'team member' does their best to make you feel at ease.
Ease, as to get lost in the moment.
There were bright lights and covered faces
And then . . .
Then, time stops.
For a moment
It's blurry at first when you come to.
What were hours seemed like only minutes.
You're not sure where you are at first
I remember seeing a photo of myself, taken as I lay in recovery.
Hoses stuck in the side of my neck, hoses in my chest, and an IV in my right hand.
Barely covered in a hospital gown.
There isn't any modesty in the ICU.
Weeks went by.
Seemed like forever.
I had but one visitor the entire time I was there.
I was far from home and even my own family didn't know I was there.
I had but one person that I trusted.
They remained by my side.
One day, a nurse came in and said " Tomorrow you are being discharged ".
And so I was.
They said they were going to send me to a Rehab facility for up to six weeks.
They didn't.
A therapist would come by every few days, they said.
Never happened.
But what did. . .was the surgeon called the very next day after I went home and said he was going to schedule me to return to the hospital to have a P.I.C.C. line
inserted in my arm to administer a drug into my veins to fight a (possible) infection, every day for the next six weeks.
Just what I wanted to hear.
The last few months haven't been fun.
I wish I could say they were.
Today, I am slowly recovering, but recovering nonetheless.
I still have trouble walking a straight line or very far.
Up or down a flight of stairs.
Arising from a kneeling position is a challenge without feeling lightheaded.
I can finally carry more than 8 lbs and I've gained back some of the 70 lbs of weight I lost.
I take enough drugs to either kill or cure ten men.
And I have returned back to my job.
I don't do much, but every day I feel a little stronger.
One day at a time, they say.
One day at a time indeed.
I'm not sure what the future holds as far as trapping goes
I have considered that after 51 years, maybe just giving it up altogether.
Maybe go see some old friends
Who can say at this point !
I do however, plan on attending this year's NTA, for at least one day.
It is, after all, just right up the highway.Should be a good show, I feel, despite the high fuel cost and low fur prices.
Why, I might even buy a trap or two . . .
