Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3
Episode 4
Episode 5
Which brings up to Ghost Weeks (6)
Today is April 28, 2011. It was rainy last night. There were thunderstorms. As was the case on March 9 when I wrote the last installment, a line of tornado-prone weather pushed across Alabama. This time, it killed hundreds of people.
Fifty days. There is a reason I waited to get around to this next installment. The next two installments are very, very hard to recollect and set to paper.
Short form: As the prior episodes relate, when in sedation you experience a kind of alienation from your body, your memories, your life… in my case, I operationalized this alienation in the form of stories set in distant – and more distant – places and times.
I would reunite with family and familiar settings … but it would be stressful. Very stressful.
Most likely these were variations on momentary wakefulness, or bleed-in sensorial from the actual reality of visitors, nurses and physicians moving about, and tweaking of the pharmacology that was keeping me together.. for I know a lot of tweaking was taking place.
Anyway… after a two month hiatus… let’s revisit some of the older Episodes and get underway.
So… it’s back to the second person narrative for you….
Since it’s been a while, let’s get you caught up on where you’ve been dream-wise…
From Episode 1
This is how it all starts…
I don’t know if it is possible to describe properly what it is like to be coughing your life out in massive, putrid gushes that, once ejected, are swiftly replaced. Be in my place, that year ago. You have not been able to cough at all for a week; the pain and pressure are incredible. You have had fever that stays north of 103 degrees Fahrenheit no matter how much ibuprofen you take, and occasionally spikes to 106 degrees. You cannot eat. You could not drink for two days and only now can, with incredible effort, after a doctor has filled an immense syringe with pus drawn out from behind your swollen left tonsil. The results marvel even the physician who jokes about taking a picture of the grayish 7 cc mass he’s drawn. That was some days before.
How lucky you were…
You hear “Ok, a Cardiac OR is opening up at 10. We’re on.”
You’ve been moved up the schedule. A lot. There are preparations to be made. It is a little past 9 AM at this point. You are told you are going to be sedated and everything is going to be fine. You’re like, meh. I’m good. You are. People are taking care of you. You trust them, their expertise. Your wife is nearby. She loves you. Friends and family are being contacted. The kids are at friends’ now…
The infection is indeed not just as bad as they feared, but much worse. Later, comments … get back to [you] – the ER docs were pressing to get [you] in surgery ASAP, else [you were] likely to be on the ‘make the patient comfortable’ path. Had they had to wait to 1:30 [you] would not have made it.
From Episode 2
Then comes the mask. You are asked to breathe deeply. You protest, holding up a hand. The mask is drawn back.
You were going to say either something clever or make some sort of "If I don't wake up tell my wife... " statement. No, it was that last one.
You don't.
You just shake your head. "Heh, never mind. I'll see her soon."
Then you hold up again "So, I will go under, and next thing I know it will be all done."
You are told, yes, that's so.
Alrighty, let's do this. You are scared something-less but you just want to get on with it.
And off into the dark you go.
And you DO experience time.
From Episode 3
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. Something is 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.
What’s that like? Funny you should ask…
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….
…
….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.
…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: In this Atlantic City dream template, the Chinese tongs run the show.
From Episode 4
It occurs to you to ask Mr. Wei the month. He looks at you oddly.
“November,” he pointed at a calendar near a wall phone. There is an appointment calendar there. You go over to it. It’s showing November.
What happened to the intervening months?
Then you notice the date.
The year is 2014. You are interested in politics. You size up that you’ve missed not one but three elections. A nearby TV, as if on cue, mentions President Obama. Well, okay at least that’s the same.
…
What is the last thing you remember?
You were sick. You went to the ER in Charlotte. You were put under. You know your name. You know your wife’s name. You…what are the boys’ names?
You realize you have forgotten. You are terrified.
OK, regroup. What’s farther back. You remember work, your boss, the one from the opera… no, a symphony! Yes! You went to a show with your wife… met your boss and her husband..what did they look like? Then this woman was there…
You had been sick and then you were at a show. Yes, that was it. Everyone asking about you. It was Christmas.
Now it is closing on Christmas four years later.
From Episode 5
You turn what little attention you are capable of toward the wall displays. Heh, it’s an online auction... very fine vases, prints, jewelry...all top-notch stuff. The bids are listed in the flying numbers in the corners. You feel a remote control nearby, glance at it. OK, you are thinking to yourself, if I aim this… and …
BID ACCEPTED FROM REMOTE 1007.
You glance at the amount indicated. 80,000. You’re pretty sure that even if that’s is in yuan, that’s a lot of money. Oops.
Someone comes in. It is the two women again. They are very well dressed, in red and gold, respectively. They are very beautiful. And very cross. The remote is taken away. The numbers change. Some series of tones indicates a cancelled bid. The women have a heated discussion.
“If he’s so active, maybe we should bring him up.”
You try to move. You want to be awake not asleep!
“No! We need to increase the dosage. Oh – now look! He is agitated!”
“OK, but we were told not too much.”
It dawns on you that you are not here of your own free will. That you might be a prisoner… then… oh, that’s nice. Suddenly you do not mind the cords that seem to be wrapped around you.
“OK, that’s done. He’ll rest now.”
Fade to deeper medical sedation.
And what are the ‘deeper levels’ like?
Some of the experiences are actually informative – you realize that during a curious simple dream involving nothing but a conic of red sparks that perfect information and perfect identity are mutually exclusive. That, in a sense, knowing everything is a path is annihilation…or nirvana. It is, as you know right in that moment – a fast train to insanity. .. that the paranoia threatening to overcome you WILL do so.
But paranoia is what you feel at this point in the coma dreams. Somehow, you are recognizing more and more that you are not in control of your body, that you are confined – sometimes a bed, sometimes seated upright. The scenes vary.
A young blonde woman is checking on you. It is sinking in that perhaps you are ill. For some reason you think she is the singer Jewel and ask why she has changed careers and become a nurse. So you know you are in a place that has nurses.
…
Your older son is nearby. He is grabbing your hand. “Get up, Dad.” He is just staring coldly. “OK, just pull your hand free of mine if you can. Come on you can do it.. you just don’t want to!”
You try. You cannot. You are dismayed.
He snorts dismissively. “No…you can’t even do that.”
“Where is your mother?” You ask, though you can hear her in the other room, talking to people.
“You’re very sick. She’s talking to the doctor. She’s pretty upset but now you’re here you’ll make it alright.”
He walks off. You call for him. He looks back, frowns, and walks away.
And now you are caught up….
When last we left you, you were very concerned to learn that your son was in danger from some very nasty people with lots of weapons, martial arts training and some apparent super-abilities (or at least high-octane super-technology).
The good news is, apparently, so did a group of primarily-Americans who introduce themselves… (because the last movie you saw before getting sick was G.I. Joe) as, you guessed it, G.I. Joe. You are rescued and then have it explained to you that they bad guys are really after your son.
“Oh, really?” You ask.
“Yes. He’s a candidate for our cadet corps. We’re all very impressed with his scores and he’s come along nicely in leadership and athletics.”
Your information on your own child, alas, is four years out of date…or is it more now?
“Isn’t 13 a bit young to be recruiting soldiers?” You ask.
They scoff as a group. “Sure – which is why we only take applicants once they turn 16.”
You close your eyes. Somehow, you lost another three years.
“2017, is it?” They shake their heads.
"It's April 2018 now."
Oh, boy.
Over the next several hours you are onboard a large hypersonic jet packed with some most excellent gear… and a lot of testosterone. Even the roughly one-third of female “Joes” are chock full of it. It’s all superhero, all day long.
You learn about the recruitment process… enough to know you are very unhappy that your son ever caught these people’s attention.
Apparently there is not a “Cobra” organization, so much as hosts of unscrupulous organizations (later, you edit this to be “equally unscrupulous” ones) that compete for a very scarce talent pool. There is some sort of not-very-gentlemanly agreement that hands out quotas to the various black ops services in this very special alternative reality…and a lot of nasty, nasty games played on the kids with the misfortune of being the mix of physical, mental, and temperamental traits that the scouts look for.
One of the games that is played is assassination of candidates. Another is putting out decoys – finding kids that could almost qualify but for particular reasons just aren’t up competitive, at least in a given year.
But if they can take heat off the kids that, say, G.I. Joe, wants to recruit, they’re drafted as decoys. If the ruse sticks…the game is on. They’re protected, to a point.
Sometimes they are ignored by rival groups. Other times they rise to the challenge and thrive. Most of they time, the decoys become dead ducks.
You are understandably displeased when it turns out your son is being used as a “duck”.
You demand that the Joes put out the word that your son is just a decoy, to get the heat taken off of him.
They laugh.
You point out that all eight of their picks for that year are on that very plane. You point right at the red-suited newbies.
The newbies laugh at you.
“So, why are you better than the terrorists, again? Because you are better at getting your own people killed, that’s how you are better – that and in no other way.”
They all stop laughing. Then they threaten to kill your son out of hand.
“Then you won’t ever be able to fool anyone ever again. They won’t believe you. Your little deal with the other spooks will fall apart. People will just get their kids and kill everyone else’s.” You pause. “That would be bad for business, wouldn’t it?”
The Joe leaders confer.
“We could arrange for the kid to break a leg.”
“Or lose an eye.”
“Or have a psychological breakdown.”
“Or get caught cheating on a test.”
“Those would be convincing exclusions.”
You fume. “You could just say he said, ‘No thanks’.”
“What? No one says ‘No thanks’ to the Joes!” They rise up in protest.
You consider some possibilities. “He always did want to go into space…I’ve been out of it a while. What do you guys have in the way of a space program these days?”
“It’s just getting started back up again. Why?”
One of the women consults a pad and touches her temple. “You know this might work!”
Everyone looks at her. “What?”
_
A few hours later, you are in the mountains of North Carolina, smiling. The Joes have honored their promise, putting out the word that they won’t be recruiting your son, not ever. It was in fact easy – He is not really the secretive sort, or ruthless enough for the kind of work the Joes and their peer competitors do. “Just look at his dad,” is the add-on. You’ve had encounters with others of this world already.
Word travels fast. You get a note from your friend Mr. Wei, reminding you about keeping secrets and keeping friends…and also indicating that he has spoken with the personages who ‘assaulted our friend’ and that this will not be an ongoing problem.
It’s good to be back among the living. You smile. The mountains are crowned greenish-gold. The sky is bright and clear. A breeze is blowing through the leaves – mixes of ash and oak, maple and birch, high up taller peaks the stands of pine and the ubiquitous rhododendron.
You have managed to contact your wife on a donated phone. Perhaps the Joes aren’t 100 percent mercenary child-killing creeps after all. So long as they stay their distance. She is overjoyed you have been found, says she is coming with family. For you to STAY PUT AT THE SCOUT CAMP.
You walk across a mown-hay field to the side of the Green River. You look up at a new and well constructed wood and mortar bridge spanning the stream here at a rare flat stretch in the deep valley. The trees rise up quickly as a wall on both sides. In the distance upstream there is a high bridge where Interstate 26 traffic crosses, quickly and loudly. The sound is off somehow. You can’t quite place how.
Then you realize why. It’s much quieter. Have cars changed so much is just … seven years?
You see some parked vehicles about 100 meters away. You squint. Minivans. SUVs. A pickup truck. A station wagon. Lots of gear piled on and in them. The wheel wells have streamlined covers. The wheels themselves seem smaller and narrower. Solid, perhaps? Why would anyone go to solid wheels? Perhaps pneumatic tires, but under higher pressure? You don’t know.
You hear laughter and shouting. Voices of boys. The scouts are coming around the bend, you can see their inflatable rafts through the trees on the bank of the Green.
“Hello,” a man’s voice says from over your right shoulder. It is a tall, thin man – very tall, with silvery-grey hair and beard. More silver than you remembered. He wears a Scoutmaster badge. “I heard you were coming.”
You turn to face him. You have no idea what kind of reception to expect.
His mouth opens up then shuts. He glances at your neck, one side then the other. He frowns. He glances at your right hand, where a dog bit it decades ago. "Yep, it's you alright."
“How is he?” You ask.
“Oh, he’s great. He stays with us often. Your wife goes to Texas often to see her.. your…there’s a lot you need to hear from her.”
You look down. “Maybe this was a mistake. Should I go?”
“No, no! Stay.” He laughs. “I am under instructions to restrain you by any non-deadly means if you attempt to flee the premises.” For a moment you think he is serious. Then you think he is joking. Then you realize – he’s only half-joking.
“I don’t know how I lost these years…” You trail off. You see the Scouts rowing to the small landing, stepping out. One is remarkably tall, dark eyed, strong shouldered… same sandy-brown bowl haircut. “Oh my God…”
A car horn is tapped repeatedly. You wheel about in surprise. There is a white sedan, then a blue station wagon, then a silver truck, then a black SUV… and that is just the beginning.
She gets out of the first car. No, getting out is not the process. She practically teleports into a sprint, fists low to her hips, pumping strenuously. Face frowning with concentration then exploding into a bright smile as your wife, who to her experience has not seen you in seven years, jumped into your startled embrace.
A young man approaches cautiously, frowning, looking sideways. Your youngest son…twice the age that you remember… no, even more. He’s big, physically very mature. “Hi,” he says in a deep voice. He keeps aloof.
A third figure sloshes up, shoes and jeans and T-shirt soaking wet and cold from the water. He throws his arms around you and your wife.
“I told you he would show up, Mom!” He said. “I’ve been tracking him for years online!”
Others arrive from the cars, from the boats. Scouts, who have heard (I learn) stories of the missing patient from the hospital (that’s you). And in the cars – family.
Not just “some family” - all of it. All of it that lives in the year (you add it up) 2018.
There is back clapping and hand shaking. You see your mother. Your aunt. Your brother. Your first cousins. Then you see, wheeling in, the most unexpected sight… utterly blind, pale as paper, hair thinned to gossamer…age 107 going on 108. She is wheeled in, finally conceded to a wheelchair.
“Where is he? Where is he?” She demands, only the voice is thinner. Her will and outrage at any hesitation between request and fulfillment unchanged.
You come close. You kneel on the ground before her. It never seemed more proper to do so.
She feels for your arms, shoulders, face. She fights down a sob, gives up momentarily, and pulls you closer.
“It’s about time. Why didn’t you ever call?” It is the same thing she has said to you over the past thirty, no, almost forty years. “Oh, I missed you so much…but why? What happened?”
Then it is your time to break down. “I lost track of time, Grandmother.” It’s perfectly true.
You look up at your wife. Tears are streaming down her more-lined face. “I’ve been so lost. It’s like I was in the hospital a few days ago!”
You look at your sons. They are having a discussion. The younger and, you see, actually larger one, is glancing at you from time to time.
Your wife settles down next to you. You look at her hand. She still has the three bands on her ring finger. You reach for your hand… there is no ring. Where did it go?
She notices the gesture. “We’re still an ‘us’ by the way. But there is one more…”
Your heart jumps. You fear she has remarried. “What do you mean…”
She takes a deep breath. “I – I mean… we…have a daughter.”
Oh, boy.