Today is February 18, 2011. I’m a bit late with this third installment of the Ghost Weeks. I’ll put in some extra time today to make up.
The reason for the delay is I needed to collect a bit more information as to what happened during my medically-induced coma.
You see, I had always wondered why I was left under sedation when my condition was, post the first surgery, not immediately life threatening. (Oh, no – the REAL fun and games would not happen for a few days!)
So last night I ask my wife (and occasional fellow Kossack) mkkendrick if there had been any attempt to awaken me after the first surgery. She said, yes, there was – that I was revived for about an hour, that I could not talk but could clearly respond to queries and was definitely communicating with body movements, pointed hand gestures and wild fearful looks in my eyes (that and the gulping and gagging around the newly-installed ventilator) that I was in considerable distress and discomfort.
Thing is, I had thought this was one of the dreams.
This is not part of the trip I wanted to remember at all. Now I do.
So, once again, we descend back into the second person. You are about to relive it with me.
Warning: You’re not going to like this part of the show at all….
We are now back to yesterday, a year ago. February 17, 2010.
Well, the first part is going to be ok; thing is, when they bring you out of sedation they do it slowly and in stages – the trick is that with a ventilator doing your breathing for you, there is a lot of skill involved to time the awakening. They don’t want you fighting with your own breathing against the breather…at full dosage you are NOT breathing on your own at all. So the first thing that happens once you are aware of it is people are talking to you, letting you know it’s ok. Don’t worry, the machine is breathing for you. Are you in any discomfort? Any pain?
Everyone means well. After all, they’re there to save your life.
What are you feeling, you who are officially so dosed up you can’t feel a thing?
Why, you feel like you are getting choked, smothered, stabbed and drowned at the same time. You are in abject terror. You are still burning hot from fever. You have no idea what time it is but you are very aware you were just in surgery because the large number of pastel-clad people gives it away that you are in a hospital.
You are arching your back in spasm, shifting from side to side, trying to get some kind of leverage to inhale on your own. You have seen videos of people when they are drowning in horror movies or just the classic murder scenes involving water. You had always thought that kind of peculiar how people twist like that, wondered if it was a theatrical affectation. Oh, no. It’s what you do. When you cannot so much as move a breath of air.
You see an oval, dark-eyed full-lipped face nearby, hand on you, the voice you know better than your own. It is your wife. For the next three weeks she will be the only real voice you have. She’s saying the surgery has happened and now they’re going to try to remove the ventilator. When they do you’ll need to breathe. It will be okay.
You are jabbing with your hands at your diaphragm, at your sides. You are absolutely terrified now. You cannot breathe. No, really. You. Cannot. Breathe. There’s this there-but-nothing feeling where your ribs are. It’s like staring dumbly at an unplugged lamp and wondering why flicking the switch isn’t making the room light up. Plug’s there. Wall socket’s there. Lamp’s there. Switch being flicked. Hello?
Ah, they figure it out. Sort of. They ask if you are in pain again. At this point you are. You can kind of twitch your diaphragm but the ribs are not functioning at all. Then deep spasms, very hard squeezes. And they DO hurt.
More of the sedation wears off. Now comes other pain. Very warm skin around the collarbone. Hurting sides; perhaps it was not sedation but actual pain. Somethings, clearly not to specs.
You hear the discussions, then some decision. It’s made seemingly lightning fast.
You’re going to be sent back under.
You hate feeling so invaded by machinery and disease and pain but you fear being set under even more. You don’t want to go. You are shaking you head. No, No, No. You are scared.
Then you start jumping around in space and time and circumstance.
Hospitals are all about corridors and lights and machines and people in role-specific uniforms toting lots of gear. The patients tote the most gear. Embedded in tubes and monitors and bandages and casts it’s often hard to see where the patient’s body and the hospital begins. And the hospital is the same way; a vast body that, in its interior screams HOSPITAL-NESS. But then you have the nice gardens, the cafeteria that serves burgers, Sbarro pizza (well, it did last year but I Sbarro filed for bankruptcy just recently) and something that will one day be your staple diet: smoothies! Then you have the running trails, the parking decks, the picnic tables, the nice apartments and neighborhoods, the boulevards and the buses and the outlying administration and service buildings and before you know it you are out in the living, breathing healthy world.
The first lesson of psychological survival in a hospital – don’t get too attached to body image. It will be challenged in ways you cannot imagine unless you have passed this gauntlet. The physical excisions and insertions are just the most tangible signs of how your YOU-NESS is challenged by this experience. For that same reason, these are the easiest challenges to deal with.
Human beings are social beings. We derive much of our identity from edges – from testing boundaries, from setting boundaries, from patrolling the fences, hedges and frontiers separating us psychically as well as physically, legally and socially from one another. We can die inside our hearts from two kinds of isolation – too much self-immersion (or immersion in similarity) and too much isolation from any contact whatsoever.
We are human beings. Our oft-espoused craving for space and territory – acquisition and control of any kind – is a deep and widely-found misunderstanding of our hard-wired quest for edge.
We hate open water. We are terrified of open desert. Heights appall us. But we love the shore, we love to look out over wastelands, we love to stand on the edge of a precipice and gaze at the mountains on the far side of the deep valley. We love edges.
A hospital is a place where the edges go away. There are gradations of decay then that last life/death quantum inch. No leaps. No dramatic shoves into the dark. Even deep trauma patients have less of a state change and more of a fizzling out. And the subjective slowdown of time when you are in dire health straits… you experience your threatened moments in a very engaging, protracted and detailed way.
Like the ones you are dealing with now as you slide slide slide back into the dark. The disconnection from your living, breathing regular live and all those lives you are embedded in – even the ones you cannot stand – can drive you mad.
Oh – by the way – you are for the first time in your life going to ask yourself – Am I going mad?
But not yet. You have some dreaming to do. Lots, lots, lots of dreaming… some of it as it turns out correlated with actual events in the actual “verse”, to riff on Serenity.
You gradually lose awareness that you are in a ICU ward, but something in you knows and does not forget that you are sick and that people are taking care of you. You pass through many, many dreams.
One of the first is somehow you are at concert. It’s the Belk Center in Charlotte. You are there with your wife. There is music playing through a TV monitor (which in real life was very probably an actual TV monitor – TV monitors will be big in your comatose life). It’s some sort of Christmas music –the women patrons of the arts are in velvet gowns, that’s generally a giveaway. For some reason there’s a problem with the bassoon section – are there ever enough bassoons in an orchestra to count as a section? Anyway there’s a call for volunteers. Everyone chuckles nervously. Something in you knows – you can’t make this stuff up.
“Is there a bassoonist in the house?”
(Yes, your subconscious actually IS making this stuff up; you’re very funny in coma-land.)
Not only does the orchestra pick up a bassoonist but a baritone player as well. You mention that you once played bass clarinet. Someone says “Hold that thought.”
No, really! You did play bass clarinet in junior high school. Sorry but you weren’t especially good at woodwinds. The orchestra thanks you for your offer of help but politely declines.
Somewhere off to your left and down, your wife is talking to someone over the rail. The voice that pipes up is the distinctive rounded Midwestern accent of your boss, there with her spouse. You have actually never seen her hubby. You get to the rail too late. (As it turns out, she had visited ICU that very morning but you had yet to be revived, thus her only appearance in your coma dreams and a very indirect one at that.)
Ahhh….the concert ensues. Only you have to watch it on a TV monitor. Sorry, no seating in the hall. At this point it sinks in that you’re not doing a whole lot of actual moving. You don’t feel like you are lying down prone, more like sitting, sometimes standing, and you do change locations from time to time (sometimes drastically) but it’s a lot of conversations. A lot of people are coming TO you, or moving PAST you or loitering AROUND you. Just like is actually happening in the real universe but the boundaries – the edges that the human mind depends on for identity and sanity – aren’t there for you.
At some point your wife is not there. At some point the show (on the TV monitor; recall there were no seats in the hall) changes to some sort of glitzy music show. It’s like Vegas on TV. No, wait…that’s too far away. Edit that - Suddenly you are in Atlantic City.
And suddenly there is a young, dark-haired woman there, smiling, intently caring for you. Telling you that there is no MKK that you have been very sick, that you amnesia from very high fever but that she loved you and was going to take care of you and would answer all your questions once you got better.
She grabs your hand. You just stare at her hand on yours. You stare at her. A Talking Heads line pops up. This is not my beautiful wife.
You raise the topic of “Where are the boys?”
“What boys?” You describe them. And the woman you are pretty sure actually is your spouse.
“Ah, them. They’re fine. Don’t worry. You need to focus on getting well. I’m taking care of you now.”
Different iterations and changes in tone and tactic yield the same result – no useful response. You’ve met people like this before. They wear a mask of affability and interest but you will never, not in a million years, get them to willfully disclose much of themselves.
And the minor detail of why this uninformative and frustrating conversation is happening in Atlantic City – and how being there helps to ‘get well’ does not get disclosed.
Mostly, your experience in this part of the coma is rather boring. You get left alone a lot (just like in reality). Somehow you end up in a hotel bar – I am not kidding. For some reason doctors come there (remember you are actually in an ICU ward in a hospital). You are not equating one with the other.
One thing that does stand out is there are a lot of surreptitious conversations (clue: you are drugged, and paranoid and these are medical professionals discussing medical professional stuff). In your comatose dream state, the one that thinks you are in Atlantic City, you start dredging up all sorts of stereotypes about the eastern tourist trap – mob affiliations, corruption… only it turns out to have a twist.
For, in this very interesting Atlantic City dream template, the Chinese tongs run the show.
And everyone plays Mah Jong. Sometimes tiles, sometimes on interactive web services that are streamed through .. (guess what) dedicated TV monitors! (I told you, monitors are big in this experience.)
So, here you are in what you think is a restaurant. Your ‘caring friend’ has vanished. The guy is dressed like he works in the kitchen - he wants you to play some Mah Jong.
You ask, “What’s the rules?” You have an idea from playing the game on Facebook a few times (which is probably where this crap comes from) but you’re figuring if money is involved you want to know the specifics.
Your new friend sits down (You’re at a table). He orders a tray of tiles. They arrive. You look down at the ivory-smooth tiles (not even fake ivory; they are nicely lacquered wood, though). He looks on the edge of the tray, grins, then turns the tray to face you. He directs you to take one pair of tiles first, then another, then another. Four moves in he says that’s all he knows but that any tray with a red magic marker on the upper left side stands for VICTORY.
In other words, it’s a fixed tray. He indicates he will be able to tell which moves to make based on the specific marking in some sort of simple dot code that changes every day.
You ask why a mah jong parlor would not simply lay tiles at random and be perfectly legit that way. You never get an answer to that question; the look on his face suggests that legitimate has nothing to do with what’s happening here.
It’s understood that he will want some portion of the proceeds, that it won’t be a small portion, and that he has the physical means to make your refusal to play, now or later, very unpleasant.
You always did like a good game of Mah Jong.
Basically there are no gurantees that you will break even but if, as seems to be the case, you got spotted the ideal first three moves, then that’s probably enough to beat the house over the course of many games – or many people playing a few hands.
Now you get the scam. It’s quite sly, if it remains undiscovered. After all, who can say you cheated if in a game with literally thousands of moves you are just getting one little nudge?
You get into the game. You are probably not going to clear the tray but you’re definitely ahead. You reach a give-up point and go to the parlor cage to cash in. Heh. Three hundred dollars.
Your new friend arrives just as you turn from the parlor cage to remind you that you owe him two hundred dollars for covering you the night before. Well, it is not good to carry debts to friends. Of course you pay. He suggests you get something to eat and walks off quickly.
At that point your ‘caring friend’ returns. She has a different Mah Jong tray – a different configuration. You learn that, at least here, there are different levels of difficulty – different tile arrangements are more challenging. You notice there are a limited number of times you can play at a certain level. You are told this is to protect the addicts from themselves.
No, it’s to protect the fact that only a limited number of configurations are created per difficulty class per day – the trays are them replicated.
It’s a practice that just begs for people to try and game the tongs. Most people know not to dare.
You realize you are caught up with absolute idiots and they are likely to get your ass beaten up or killed. Somehow, you’ve been spirited away from a hospital in Charlotte (that’s not a dream, that actually happened! You think) but you’re well enough to get about and now, oh boy, you’re in trouble now.
Somehow this woman and man have picked you out as the ideal mark for this sort of scam…someone with disconnection (you still do NOT know why) from family and friends, some decent pattern recognition skills and enough sense not to make a scene.
There is also one other detail. You only pick up on this when the ‘caring woman’ produces a syringe. It is morphine. You don’t even have to be explained what it is or what it is for.
You are addicted to it. (No, you actually aren’t but for this dream sequence you are told you are, therefore you are. The morphine metaphor will be a big part of your coma-life.. while it does not drive the medical sedation, its use largely defines to your unconscious self when you are in the comatose world.)
You produce your arm. The woman smiles as she doses you. “Ah, you do remember some things.”
You know this is why you cannot remember. This cold delight she is pouring into your blood that is like iced tea to your discomfort inside of twelve seconds. You know this because you have counted it out again and again. You even forget you are addicted.. but there is some dreadful pain you dare not remember. Something connected to a woman who looks like this one…but you were playing Mah Jong.
Where’d she go? You see her silhouette vanish toward the front door. Some doctors (is this place near a hospital?) mill in her away, she says something and swoops past them. They resume their conspiratorial conversations.
You play Mah Jong Again – this is a castle formation. It’s the next harder level. You struggle but the tiles pay more. This time, the payoff is six hundred dollars. For some reason you owe an old woman in a golden hat four hundred dollars. Funny how you have accumulated all these debts so quickly.
You look around. You return to your table. Seeing an opportunity you start into some rice and shrimp.
It is then that a very tall young Asian man, thin and broad-shouldered, blue jacking draped over a perfect white shirt (white the Chinese color of death, by the way) stands, tray in hand. It is the simplest Mah Jong configuration, the one you played first. He practically shoves the tray before you.
“I am restaurant games director,” he sits down, all calm and smiles. “You play well! As a compliment, have this tray, on the house.” He looks at a nearby tray of crisps, then asks for a permission to take one with his eyes that he does not need. He takes one, swallows. “I would just like to watch your first three moves with you.”
Oops.
He nods. He asks for your name. You give it. “Well, you are in a lot of trouble.” He folds his hands together, elbows on the table. “How will you make it right with us?”
You fish out the money you have from the earlier two games and set it on the table. He makes the money disappear as smoothly as he will make you disappear if the next few lines of conversation go poorly.
He smiles primly and waits for you to make the next few lines of conversation go well.
You might have thought you were the kind of person who would never drop a dime on friends. You might rationalize the kitchen worker and whoever this rogue nurse aren’t really friends. You are acutely aware there are dire social consequences to ratting people out.
Your choice, as in real life, is for absolute stakes: Make a judgment call, make it right, or die.
You are truly concerned that choosing to live may not buy you much time. It may even get people killed – people who will have vengeful friends.
But right now the local white-shirted version of Death is waiting on your answer. He wants it now.
You don’t really hesitate. You describe that you have been told the first three moves to make on a specifically marked tray and where the tray is. He looks at the tray before you, notices there are red marks there.
He says “These are a code.” And instructs you to take first one pair, then another, then another. He studies the opened configuration of the tray and nods. Then he stands up “Thank you, you have made things right. Please don’t leave the table,” he adds, nodding for your benefit toward two not especially menacing older gentlemen in the booth next doors. One is tapping his left collarbone as he stares at you. He is clearly wearing a shoulder holster.
The man takes in your recognition and nods. There will be no trouble whatsoever.
Mr. White Shirt turns slowly around, taking in all of the parlor. He sees a man – your ‘friend’ – steps out from the kitchen. He makes to turn then notices two more not especially menacing men step out from the kitchen. They escort him to your table.
“Ah, now we will sort this out. This is the man you spoke of?” I glance at him. He is livid. There is no need for you to say a word. Mr. White Shirt nods and smiles.
The kitchen man lunges at you but the businessman blocks him. He makes several attempts to strike though Mr. White Shirt’s reach. All parried easily.
“Take him to my office. I’ll discuss his future employment with the restaurant in more detail later.”
Mr. White Shirt sits down with you, and studies you. “This is going to sound strange but I want you to work for us.”
“For... us?”
“We are new here. We could use friends. You could use a better set of them.”
You ask. “What’s going to happen with that guy?”
“Is that really something you want to be in on?”
You glance sideways and then squirm in your seat.
He laughs. “He’ll be handed over to the police. If he returns, he’ll be handed over to others.”
The implication is he won’t be back. Not ever. The other implication is not to ask any more questions on this matter.
You change the subject back to employment. “You mentioned something about a job?”
It is explained to you that there is a significant amount of corruption around Mah Jong. (You refrain from blurting out “Ya think?” This isn’t that kind of a crowd.) Back in China, reputation of the consequences and longstanding treaties kept individual cons to a minor nuisance and relations with rivals fairly calm.
You are not sure if it’s all that but that is what you are told.
However, in America everyone wants to have a go at the new parlors. Since the re-legalization of online gaming (something that catches your attention as it means you are NOT in 2010 anymore) Mah Jong has become the thing. From that, it was an easy step to justify play in physical establishments like this restaurant as being a “game of skill”…albeit a slightly rigged one.
It’s explained to you that it would be nice to have a quick and non-confrontational way to keep people from cheating. You raise the issue that it would be fine just to have each tray assembled randomly. No, that can’t be done. You point out that so long as there is a fixed template there will always be a temptation for corruption.
The answer is a look away in silence.
You read between the lines that SOME control of the outcome is considered desirable.
Likewise, that there remain a structural flaw - some temptation to determine the character and loyalty of subordinates.
There is a wisdom to this, if you operate under the assumption that the human capacity for betrayal is constant over large amounts of people and time and that this innate moral failure can be camoflaged but never cured.
You're not very comfortable with the idea.
On the other hand, Mr. White Shirt has been all about the redemption in your instance. He's giving you a chance to work off your debt to (his) society (of professional criminals).
Speaking of moral failure, the topic of your evident need for morphine is brought up.
This, too, can be addressed by faithful service – supplies, even treatment to get off the stuff down the line. The implication being, it is a short leash, the tong knows it, intends to hold on to it.
You wonder what you are getting yourself into but you literally have no other options.
It is good to work. Why not?
"What's my first job?"
"Let's introduce you around. Then we will discuss finding your other friend."
"Oh," you say. For some reason you feel much guiltier about this prospect.
There's a lot you don't know about why you are here. She's part of the answer.
You worry what that answer is going to be. And what it says about you.
You had no idea being in a coma could be so… lively. Did you?