Blog Blitz with Author RobRoy McCandless
Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog blitz,
welcomes RobRoy McCandless
Pain.
Pain that deserves a capital letter when it’s in the middle of
a sentence like it’s the proper name of metaphorical being.
a sentence like it’s the proper name of metaphorical being.
Like Death.
Like Lust.
This was Pain who had not come for a pleasant visit of
chatting over beers and boneless chicken wings dipped into discolored ranch
sauce. He had shown up to do his job,
clocked in on time, sat down at his desk, and went to work on my gut.
chatting over beers and boneless chicken wings dipped into discolored ranch
sauce. He had shown up to do his job,
clocked in on time, sat down at his desk, and went to work on my gut.
I’ve been in pain before.
I’ve had two knee surgeries, an appendectomy and a bowel resection. Each experience was more painful than the
previous, each requiring an increasing amount of time and medication to
recover.
I’ve had two knee surgeries, an appendectomy and a bowel resection. Each experience was more painful than the
previous, each requiring an increasing amount of time and medication to
recover.
Looking back, it’s as if Pain had set out a series of
milestones, goals in preparation for today.
milestones, goals in preparation for today.
“I need you to drive me to the hospital,” I gasped out into
my cell phone as my wife listened.
my cell phone as my wife listened.
“It’s that bad?”
I was in too much pain to respond. The abdominal cramping had started the night
before, and none of the usual suspects had done any good in relieving it. I’d managed to get to work, but the cramping
had increased, and I’d asked my boss if I could go home. Two hours later I had tried to take some Milk
of Magnesia, my last line of defense in these circumstances.
before, and none of the usual suspects had done any good in relieving it. I’d managed to get to work, but the cramping
had increased, and I’d asked my boss if I could go home. Two hours later I had tried to take some Milk
of Magnesia, my last line of defense in these circumstances.
Instead of relieving me, the cramping had suddenly shot up,
and I’d found myself bent over the toilet, vomiting.
and I’d found myself bent over the toilet, vomiting.
I hadn’t stopped vomiting.
I vomited the Milk of Magnesia. Then I vomited the water I had drunk. Finally, I had started dry heaving, a bit of
bile flecked with blood.
bile flecked with blood.
That’s when I knew it was serious.
“I can’t leave right now,” my wife responded. “Can you wait 30 minutes.”
My head, filled with a light sheen of red Pain, started
doing the math. Thirty minutes of
waiting, doubled over, and gasping for air.
Five minutes of struggling to get out of the house and into the
car. Fifteen minutes to reach the
hospital if there was only light traffic, or thirty minutes if the traffic was
heavy and we had to slog through or find a surface street. Five minutes to find a parking place. Five minutes to walk into the hospital.
doing the math. Thirty minutes of
waiting, doubled over, and gasping for air.
Five minutes of struggling to get out of the house and into the
car. Fifteen minutes to reach the
hospital if there was only light traffic, or thirty minutes if the traffic was
heavy and we had to slog through or find a surface street. Five minutes to find a parking place. Five minutes to walk into the hospital.
That meant, at best, one more hour with Pain.
“I’ll drive myself,” I replied.
I don’t remember what was said after that. Pain has gripped my intestinal tract and
refused to let go. Even now, my stomach
is giving me little echoes of Pain, like the afterimage of an incredibly bright
light burned into the cornea of my eye.
It gives me pause, makes me conduct a full body check to see if this
time it will be like last time, and I need to start reaching for the car keys.
refused to let go. Even now, my stomach
is giving me little echoes of Pain, like the afterimage of an incredibly bright
light burned into the cornea of my eye.
It gives me pause, makes me conduct a full body check to see if this
time it will be like last time, and I need to start reaching for the car keys.
The moment passes, unlike the Pain of that day.
I didn’t hang up on my wife.
She said something about trying to get to me as soon as possible, and I
grunted out responses while I struggled to move around the house.
She said something about trying to get to me as soon as possible, and I
grunted out responses while I struggled to move around the house.
I put on loose fitting clothing: sweat pants and a
t-shirt. Then I thought better of the
t-shirt and threw a Disney-themed hockey jersey over it. Hospitals are always cold, and I’m always
cold, which means I freeze. I couldn’t
bend over to put on socks or shoes, so I suffered with the knowledge that my
feet would be ice as I slipped on my flip-flops.
t-shirt. Then I thought better of the
t-shirt and threw a Disney-themed hockey jersey over it. Hospitals are always cold, and I’m always
cold, which means I freeze. I couldn’t
bend over to put on socks or shoes, so I suffered with the knowledge that my
feet would be ice as I slipped on my flip-flops.
I found my keys. I
found my wallet. I made sure I had my
insurance card.
found my wallet. I made sure I had my
insurance card.
I doubled over with Pain, my left arm wrapped around my
middle as if I had been cut open and only my fingers could keep my loose,
slippery, bloody intestines inside me.
My right hand gripped with painful fingers the back of a kitchen chair,
as if I could offset one Pain for the other by squeezing hard enough.
middle as if I had been cut open and only my fingers could keep my loose,
slippery, bloody intestines inside me.
My right hand gripped with painful fingers the back of a kitchen chair,
as if I could offset one Pain for the other by squeezing hard enough.
I could not.
You should not drive drunk.
You should not drive tired. You
should not answer a cell phone or text while driving
You should not drive tired. You
should not answer a cell phone or text while driving
.
You should not drive with Pain.
He won’t take the wheel from you, steer you gently to the side
of the road and apply the brake. He
doesn’t pat you on the back, or place a warm washcloth against your
forehead. In the car, he sits with you,
closer and more intimate than any lover, and he does his work. No position, no shifting, no mindset can free
you from his grasp. He holds you and
holds you and holds you. You can’t push
Pain aside, once he’s paid you a visit.
He just continues, doggedly, like a cubicle-lackey pounding away at his
keyboard, watching the workday clock that never moves past 9:13.
of the road and apply the brake. He
doesn’t pat you on the back, or place a warm washcloth against your
forehead. In the car, he sits with you,
closer and more intimate than any lover, and he does his work. No position, no shifting, no mindset can free
you from his grasp. He holds you and
holds you and holds you. You can’t push
Pain aside, once he’s paid you a visit.
He just continues, doggedly, like a cubicle-lackey pounding away at his
keyboard, watching the workday clock that never moves past 9:13.
I drive in the far right lane, the “slow lane” because I
don’t trust myself. I know I’m a
distracted driver. I know I present a
potential danger to myself and everyone around me. I also know Pain. As Jim Morrison sung, I keep my eyes on the
road. I keep my hand upon the
wheel. I focus on breathing. I scream in sudden, twisted bouts of
abdominal cramping. In my head, fists
twist my intestines, my guts, and tie them into the Gordian Knot.
don’t trust myself. I know I’m a
distracted driver. I know I present a
potential danger to myself and everyone around me. I also know Pain. As Jim Morrison sung, I keep my eyes on the
road. I keep my hand upon the
wheel. I focus on breathing. I scream in sudden, twisted bouts of
abdominal cramping. In my head, fists
twist my intestines, my guts, and tie them into the Gordian Knot.
Pain is intractable and untenable.
I make my exit and am at once relieved and struggling. I’m in a bad way, and I know it. I can barely sit up, and I still have lights
and other cars to navigate through.
and other cars to navigate through.
I offer a prayer that there will be a close parking stall.
Pain must have intercepted that particular request. He rejects it out of hand.
The furthest stall from the entrance is the only one
open. I’ve already spent several minutes
in fruitless search. My body is covered
in a light sheen of Pain-induced sweat.
I assume my skin is ashen, my eyes red-rimmed and haunted. I assume this, but I have no time to look at
my reflection.
open. I’ve already spent several minutes
in fruitless search. My body is covered
in a light sheen of Pain-induced sweat.
I assume my skin is ashen, my eyes red-rimmed and haunted. I assume this, but I have no time to look at
my reflection.
I start the long, Pain-filled shuffle from my car to the ER
entrance.
entrance.
A security guard on a bicycle sees me, and I think he’s
going to ask if I’m ok, if I need help I
can’t even wish for him to do something; anything. I’m clutching at my middle, trying to keep my
innards from exploding. I’m trying to
press Pain back inside my stomach.
Trying to keep from screaming as the next bout of twisting,
iron-strapped Pain bounds around me and holds on tight.
going to ask if I’m ok, if I need help I
can’t even wish for him to do something; anything. I’m clutching at my middle, trying to keep my
innards from exploding. I’m trying to
press Pain back inside my stomach.
Trying to keep from screaming as the next bout of twisting,
iron-strapped Pain bounds around me and holds on tight.
The guard turns on his bike and cycles away. I struggle through some shrubs where a path
wasn’t intended, but has been created by the passage of thousands of feet each
day. People like me who were seeking the
straightest, most direct line.
wasn’t intended, but has been created by the passage of thousands of feet each
day. People like me who were seeking the
straightest, most direct line.
The doors to the ER are automatic. They swing open as if pulled by over-eager
children, desperate to please. They are
noisy and I stagger through.
children, desperate to please. They are
noisy and I stagger through.
My hand reaches into my pocket and I pull out my wallet,
then I grab onto the counter for support.
I try to pull my insurance card out, but the nurse stops me.
then I grab onto the counter for support.
I try to pull my insurance card out, but the nurse stops me.
“Can you walk inside?” she asks me. She knows Pain. “Don’t bother with that, just come in.”
Even before I start nodding my head in response, a buzzer
sounds and move toward it like a metaphor to a life-preserver.
sounds and move toward it like a metaphor to a life-preserver.
“Can you sit down?” the nurse asks.
“Yes,” I croak.
The nurse is incredibly efficient. She is incredibly kind. She is incredibly sympathetic and empathetic. She asks questions, pounds her keyboard with the
speed and diligence of a professional.
She was not trained to be a typist or a computer user. She was trained to help people. But to do that, she has also trained to do
this, and she does it.
speed and diligence of a professional.
She was not trained to be a typist or a computer user. She was trained to help people. But to do that, she has also trained to do
this, and she does it.
“We don’t have wheelchairs,” she tells me. I have no idea where the conversation has
gone, or if there has even been one. Any
responses I gave her were automatic.
Pain has me fully in his grip and he’s not letting go this time. He’s not giving up. This isn’t some trick of mental prowess. Pain has me completely in his grasp, and this
is no longer cramping; this is a single cramp.
gone, or if there has even been one. Any
responses I gave her were automatic.
Pain has me fully in his grip and he’s not letting go this time. He’s not giving up. This isn’t some trick of mental prowess. Pain has me completely in his grasp, and this
is no longer cramping; this is a single cramp.
“I . . . can . . . walk,” I tell her, but she grabs one of
my arms, removing it from my middle where I had been holding myself together,
and I nearly collapse against her. I
can’t even tell you her hair color or her build. I can’t tell you if she was tall or short or
fat or thin. I only had eyes filled by
Pain.
my arms, removing it from my middle where I had been holding myself together,
and I nearly collapse against her. I
can’t even tell you her hair color or her build. I can’t tell you if she was tall or short or
fat or thin. I only had eyes filled by
Pain.
She calls to other ER personnel and I’m surrounded. They ask me questions and I know all the
answers. They ask if I can take off my
shirt. They hand me a gown and ask me to
put it on. They ask me to take off my
flip-flops. They ask me to lay down.
answers. They ask if I can take off my
shirt. They hand me a gown and ask me to
put it on. They ask me to take off my
flip-flops. They ask me to lay down.
I relate my medical history, the interesting colorful bits
that I know relate directly to Pain. My
wife appears and an IV goes into my arm.
that I know relate directly to Pain. My
wife appears and an IV goes into my arm.
“I’m giving you something for the nausea,” a male voice
says.
says.
I don’t care.
I’m crying.
My wife has my hand, and I’m struggling to stay still, but
Pain has filled me completely. I don’t
even feel the nausea medication. It
might as well be saline or spit for all the good it does. I try to breathe and to contain myself, but
my entire world is now Pain, Pain, Pain.
Pain has filled me completely. I don’t
even feel the nausea medication. It
might as well be saline or spit for all the good it does. I try to breathe and to contain myself, but
my entire world is now Pain, Pain, Pain.
This, then, is zealotry.
This is fanaticism. This is
obsession.
This is fanaticism. This is
obsession.
This is the complete and utter focus on one and only one
element of life to the complete exclusion of everything else.
element of life to the complete exclusion of everything else.
Pain.
He doesn’t grin at me in victory. That’s not his way. He’s “just doing his job” and there is no
glee in it as he sits on my stomach, slowly twisting the crank that has bound
me up, and won’t stop.
glee in it as he sits on my stomach, slowly twisting the crank that has bound
me up, and won’t stop.
“It won’t let go,” I scream out, and I pound my feet against
the ER bed. “It won’t let go.”
the ER bed. “It won’t let go.”
Tears stream down my pinched face, and I slam my clenched
fist against too-thin padding. My wife
has my other hand, and she tells me I’m hurting her. I let go.
She strokes my head. I tell her
over and over and over that I’m sorry for this.
She responds over and over and over that it’s not my fault.
fist against too-thin padding. My wife
has my other hand, and she tells me I’m hurting her. I let go.
She strokes my head. I tell her
over and over and over that I’m sorry for this.
She responds over and over and over that it’s not my fault.
I keep crying and pounding and apologizing.
My attending nurse asks my wife to move, because she’s on
the side with the IV. I won’t note any
of this until later, because in a moment, after some words that I can’t hear,
the first of many, many, many injections of pain medication are administered.
the side with the IV. I won’t note any
of this until later, because in a moment, after some words that I can’t hear,
the first of many, many, many injections of pain medication are administered.
There is no flood of sudden comfort. No quick release from Pain’s grasp.
I simply pass out.
Over the next two weeks of my four-week stay in the
hospital, Pain will be a constant companion.
Then, this major project complete, his work done, the clock now reading
4:55, he will start to gather his things.
He doesn’t ever leave. No, not my
Pain. He stays with me, and like a big
brother he will reach out and squeeze every now and then to remind me that we
travel this road of life together.
hospital, Pain will be a constant companion.
Then, this major project complete, his work done, the clock now reading
4:55, he will start to gather his things.
He doesn’t ever leave. No, not my
Pain. He stays with me, and like a big
brother he will reach out and squeeze every now and then to remind me that we
travel this road of life together.
Siddhartha Buddha said, “Life is pain.”
I don’t hate Pain, or loathe him for a job well done. I do fear him. The memory of Pain is like Jason from the Friday the 13th series: a constant,
elemental presence who causes fear with even the hint of appearance.
elemental presence who causes fear with even the hint of appearance.
But I live.
I live with Pain.
RobRoy McCandless has been a writer both professionally and
personally for nearly two decades. He was born under a wandering star that led
him to a degree in Communication and English with a focus on creative writing.
He is the author of the many unpublished words (anthropomorphic is a good one)
and continues to research and write historical and genre fiction.
personally for nearly two decades. He was born under a wandering star that led
him to a degree in Communication and English with a focus on creative writing.
He is the author of the many unpublished words (anthropomorphic is a good one)
and continues to research and write historical and genre fiction.
Find RobRoy here:
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2 comments:
Best of luck with your writing!
Thank you so much for hosting!
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