MEMORIES...

Are not in the corners of my mind…well…actually they are. They’re just freaking hard to find these days. I’ve had my breakfast. I took my shower so my wife would stop complaining that I smell like a troll. I have my tea beside me as I…what was I saying? Oh yeah… as I gaze out on the picturesque parking lot of our apartment complex. I have my treasure map in front of me so let’s go find those pesky and elusive memories everyone romantically sings about.
First off, this has nothing to do with my recent foray into medical guinea pigness. This all began a few years earlier with all of my heart surgeries.
The doctors are quick to tell you things as you’re being wheeled down a hall with an army of white coats around you things like “If we don’t do this right now you’re going to die!” “We’re going to keep you conscious through the surgery because we’ll need to ask you questions from time to time but you won’t remember any of it later.” My first thought was…”wanna bet?” which left me with only one plausible and rational response since I was still very under the influence of the other drugs they gave me for the surgery I was just coming out of and that was “OK wake me when it’s over.” Then I looked at my wife as if to say “The ball’s in your court now…run with it. “ and I went back to sleep.
What they don’t tell you are things I didn’t learn until several days later after they brought me out of the coma. I come to in a private room in Cardiac ICU (which has become my personal suite. I have a decorator re-do the whole thing every six months to keep it fresh) and, as is typical for people doing this, I started to try and rip my ventilator out of my mouth and the wires and IV’s out of my arms. Needless to say I got a shot of something wonderful (I still don’t know what it was but it was OUTSTANDING!) as they tied my hands down and as I drifted back to sleep I remember thinking “We need to buy an olive pitter.” And out I went.
When I awoke some time later that maniac surgeon was standing at the foot of my bed as the breathing tube was being removed. There must be a class that all doctors and food servers must take because he starts asking me questions while my mouth is still full of this large plastic tube expecting me to give him an answer! Just like “So how’s your dinner?” I eventually regain my composure (and the urge to strangle him) and settle back for out little bedside chat.
It’s then, and only then, that he drops the first bomb. “It’s quite common for people who undergo the type of trauma and surgery your body went through to have a certain amount of memory loss. Some will be short lived and some will be gone forever. Because you were also in a coma you may not get as much back as others might.” “Well thanks for the heads up beforehand pal!” I’m thinking to myself. He talks about the emotions I’ll be going through and my other doctors will help me work through that (Queue the conversation that was never had about anti-depressants as “My Heart Bleeds for You” plays softly in the background by a string quartet.) With that he was off, never to be seen again but the masked man did leave a silver bullet at the foot of my bed… along with a bill.
He proved to be pretty accurate. I, thankfully, don’t remember anything about the surgery. According to my wife I was one angry asshole for a very long time. Today, thanks to the anti-depressants I’m only an asshole. Medicines can only correct so many things and unfortunately hereditary issues aren’t necessarily one of them. If you look in the dictionary today under “asshole” there’s still a family portrait there of at least four generations of Eakins men. My memory is the pile of shit my surgeon predicted it would be. It amazes me what I do and don’t remember.
Every one of us hangs our hat on the memories we’ve tucked away in our heads. Some stay factual, some take on an illusion of what we had wished or hoped had happened. The disconcerting part about illusions is that, given enough time, they seem to become real. Reality for me these days is much more of an interesting challenge than fantasy and sometimes it’s difficult to filter what is and isn’t real. Childhood memories sometimes become suspect. Most people can remember large parts of their childhood and growing up. The people they knew, the places they lived and had visited the magical (and sometimes not so magical) moments of being a kid.
I can remember quite vividly when I was so young I couldn’t walk or talk. I was lying in my crib supposedly going to sleep when I had this epiphany of a thought I just had to share it with my parents. I pulled myself up into a standing position and began to get their attention. Now remember, I couldn’t talk yet so a large amount of blabbering, noise making and probably the occasional cry was involved (some things don’t change in nearly sixty years) but this was important shit. My dad eventually came into the room quietly asking me what was up as he picked me up and carried me across my yellow walled bedroom and sat down with me in the rocker in the corner while I frantically told him my idea. Before long I was out like a light.
I remember that brief incident so long ago it’s not funny but I can’t tell you the names of half of the kids I went to school with and even fewer of my college classmates. We won’t even get started on teachers. I can tell you the day and place I bought my first car… but I don’t remember what I had for lunch three days ago. I fondly remember the girl I lost my virginity to and when and where but the lovers I’ve had through my adult life in this lifestyle I live in… few and far between at best. My phone number and social security number are a crapshoot. You may get me if you call or you may get a support service technician in India. If you get “Hello, my name is “Mike” how can I help you?” It’s a sure bet I gave you the wrong number. E-mail my wife for the right one.
Memories are fleeting…especially for someone like me. It’s going to be interesting what treasures I uncover this year as I dig through the rest of my brain. As long as I don’t make that wrong turn in Albuquerque I should be just fine.
Stay tuned campers.

This brain fart brought to you by Paxil. If you can’t afford your prescription contact GLAXOSMITHKLEIN to see if they can help.