You’ve Been Documented

My life is riddled with odd juxtapositions, as those who follow the Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy can attest. In a way, they make me who I am. A good ole’ boy from Louisiana with a BS in Construction publishing anything “creative” is unorthodox. Regarding outward appearances, the “good ole’ boy” standard would hold if not for the tattoos – I’ve lost count, thirty-something. 

The latest example was transitioning from looking like a rockstar when my friend, Clement, flew me from Monroe to Love Field on Christmas Day – this was after learning Will, my twenty-year-old son, was to undergo emergency surgery the next morning – to a complete buffoon in the coming days through intermittently getting in trouble on the sprawling Children’s Hospital of Texas campus.

Trouble, like many words in the English Language, is relative. A big deal to someone else isn’t necessarily to me. Therefore, when my ex-wife (let’s call her Donna) said, through tear-soaked, smokey blue eyes, “I got a call from security. You’ve been documented,” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. For clarification purposes, they were tears of Mother’s worry, not exacerbation brought via “ex-husband abhorrence.” 

On day one of the scheduled endoscopic third ventriculostomy, December 26th, the Wizard of Hematology deemed Will’s bloodwork “suspect” and sent him home with instructions to return for another blood test the following day. No one saw or talked directly to this entity, yet he, she, or it held the cards. The pediatric neurosurgeons didn’t go until the Wizard said so. 

I understood the problem to be a matter of viscosity, my knowledge being classified as ignorant. The aspirin he’d been taking for his headaches had made his blood too thin, not suitable for microscopic neurosurgery, or so they thought. 

I volunteered to take Will back for the bloodwork as I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him without the other people around since I’d arrived. My husband-in-law (let’s call him Dwayne) was in my sight one hundred percent of the time, either glued to his wife’s hip or lingering close behind, never letting the much younger Donna veer too far. Pleasing in a way, knowing that could never be me. A blessing I don’t live with this woman who I thought was a partner in all things, but in reality, the real “not fake nice personality” was overbearing and manipulative.

It was the third day, the day after Will and I had gone for the additional bloodwork and the second attempt at surgery. The plan was to test his blood again, anticipating the numbers would continue to move in the right direction, as the previous tests indicated. When the medical team explained that the numbers went in the opposite direction and canceled the surgery for the second time, it was a tough pill to swallow. 

I’d been with Will every day since he began having the headaches which had started weeks before. I knew how much he wanted it done, as did I. My emotional state, my ex-wife’s anxiety, and Dwayne’s permanent fixture status were more than I wanted to take. The sordid nature of her marital exodus and cruelty in the months to follow, combined with the lack of retribution, have made it impossible to find closure. Therefore, I excused myself. 

Why, I’m not sure. Perhaps I didn’t want to share that moment with someone less than a stranger, an interloper who helped strategize when and how to leave so that outward appearances suggested another marriage ruined by addiction while conveniently leaving out the mental diagnosis.

Why must I harbor ancient resentments that only serve to manifest new ones? Perhaps airing the grievance with a sledgehammer will purge me of these emotional toxins (albeit this is Bush-League; you should read the first draft of this story).

I’d only been gone about ten minutes, enough time to clear my head when I walked back into the pre-op room and was slapped in the face by a familiar but uneasy vibe; I’d done or was suspected of something.

There they all were: Will in the hospital bed waiting to be released, Donna, Dwayne, and my gracious host, Marsha, my ex-mother-in-law. 

Being a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of guy, coming under suspicion isn’t unusual. My defense is subconsciously based on historical data that indicates the transgressions are, more times than not, partially my doing… exhibiting traits that can feint guilt. It’s an uphill climb with a guilty effect out of the gate. 

The first thing that came to mind was getting lost the day before and having to be escorted away from an area I had wandered into, like a dementia patient or someone up to no good, not just a dude with uber ADHD under immense stress. Not the generic variety of ADHD, but the diagnosed kind that causes a person to find themselves in restricted areas. Now… I could’ve and would’ve found my way. I didn’t realize I was lost until a security guard stopped me and asked, “Sir, are you lost?”

To which I had to answer, “Why, yes. I am.” I was – lost. Me? I could’ve found my way; I wasn’t concerned. I was writing something. Obviously, that, being a wandering old man. 

I’m 50, by the way. I might be 51. The date on my birth certificate is “approximate,” as I was dropped off on a doorstep. I’m just playing. Dr. Rahn Sherman delivered me. Bruised my eye, pulling me out with some tongs. He, Uncle Eddy, and Ronnie, my dad, had been out squirrel hunting. Doc Sherman gave Mom a twelve-gage bullet to bite. So, the story goes, and another one to tell.

“Crap… I was hoping not to have to talk about that,” said the father to the mother. I blathered over being stressed, running on little sleep, juggling anxiety-laden moments like only one with reflexes such as I can. She said nothing. I continued, trying to explain away the lostness with a chart analogy. “You told me to go to the same place we went yesterday. Which, if this campus could be laid out on a map of the U.S., that would be Seattle,” I pointed northwest. “But when we showed up, the hospital staff directed us elsewhere.” I looked around and took the temperature of the room. Marsha seemed entertained, which was enough to stoke my confidence. “Before we knew it, we’re in Miami,” I turned around and pointed to the opposite corner. 

I explained how I didn’t want to subject Will to the long walk, leaving him comfortably in Miami while navigating to the Pacific Northwest, negotiating the perils of my stress-induced “hyper-mania” alone. “Hell,” I said, “I ain’t gonna lie… I was looking at my phone and found myself down some corridor – lost. And you know how I do in a grocery store while talking on the phone,” I said. She rolled her eyes in acknowledgment.

Standing there cross-armed like a “blond” Maggie Rhee from The Walking Dead in her form-fitting jeans and boots, looking at me like she liked me less than I already knew she did, she said, “What are you talking about?”

I thought of the next thing I’d done that could have offended someone. Because my gage governing society’s norms blew a fuse somewhere along the way, it took a minute. Motioning out of the pre-op room and down the corridor leading to the second-floor lobby, I blurted, “All I did was go down to the first floor and meditate on a bench.” 

More looks and no words confused me further. Taking a deep breath, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

Exhaling frustration, Donna said, “Something in the parking garage yesterday.” The blue in her sweater accentuated her now clear eyes. 

“Oh, that,” I said, the memory rushing over. “That guy was an a-hole. Now, that was justified,” I spoke with confidence. 

It involved an anti-social parking garage attendant on the first morning. I don’t consider myself the end-all-be-all when it comes to social graces. My reactions are generally involuntary. It's simple: when disrespected, a mechanism is triggered in my brain, releasing the chemicals responsible for aggression. I don’t remember what I said, but the chicken s*%# went and told the principal. 

Donna said they told her these types of things must be “documented.” Considering the altercation happened on the street and not the parking garage itself, the event probably wasn’t captured on camera – prompting the call. But I knew that was bull. Parking Garage Guy was “butt hurt” over being called out. I don’t care about perceptions; my conscience was clear.

My explanation and theatrics seeming to have appeased the sit’chation, I walked with them to their car to see Will off. My nature becoming affable once again, Dwayne asked me where I was parked. Filson briefcase strapped to my back, Dunkin’ Donuts bags falling on the concrete. I looked around and replied, “I don’t know.” Appealing to the professional engineer in Dwayne, I visualized the property in plain view and asked him where we were located directionally. 

“South,” he replied. Texas, for the non-geography challenged, thousands of miles closer to Miami than Seattle. 

I orientated myself, turned 180°, and pointed north. “That way, but right now,” I said, “I’m going where he’s going,” nodding to my son. “I’ll worry about where I need to be when I get there.” 

Dwayne looked at me in a way that suggested bewilderment over a life lived so carefree, prompting my unsolicited response. “I go where the road takes me, Partner.”

Arriving at their alternative fuel truckster, I bid everyone adieu and made my way back to Seattle and on to the next Adventure of the Saltwater Cowboy. 

I would be remiss not to give credit to Will for his champion’s attitude throughout the long and arduous process. I found comfort from my stress and anxiety time and time again by Will’s coolness. The only thing that troubled him was the area of his head they would have to shave, which, unfortunately, was significant.