going my way
by Kenneth M. Kapp
Where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy boy?
Where are you going my silly, silly boy?
Before
When I was little my mom would give me cod liver oil – always telling me an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. The teaspoon was shoved under my nose until I stuck my chin forward and opened my mouth. I couldn’t imagine taking a pound of that stuff. I swallowed and tried to keep from throwing up. No wonder that I had a primary care doctor and went for all my annual checkups – anything, but no more cod liver oil!
Now it’s mostly blood draws and urine tests. When the results are posted in the hospital’s database, I go in for the review with my primary care physician. A couple of deep breaths and taps on my torso. “Get more exercise and come back in a year.” Maybe a pep talk on beer, but the jury is out on that – good thing. And the invitation to come back in a year.
When I was told my PSA number had changed – that’s the one correlating to prostate cancer – it got my attention and that of my wife. We went to see a urologist and decided we’d monitor the numbers carefully, retesting every couple of months: the watch and wait protocol. Prostate cancers are usually slow-growing and eventually are present in most men.
Six months later – an “oopsy” moment. The numbers had climbed significantly. No more waiting. We had already investigated various options and decided to go with a robotic prostatectomy surgery. Seemed the best bet at that time. Quick, clean, and over with.
Admittedly, in the month, weeks, and days prior to my check-in at the hospital the tensions built up. It was suggested that one way to deal with this was to record what was happening as things rolled along. As it turned out, it was me who was doing most of the rolling in hospital beds.
Better yet, this wonderful suggestion was further qualified: write about it in the present tense as if you were looking over your shoulder – a reporter on the spot. I tried. I was tense, so don’t be surprised if past and present tenses get mixed. Think of it as the surreal present being passed so rapidly that it becomes the past without you even knowing it. And it’s not as if I had time to go back and edit this.
Come along for the ride; we’ll all roll along, merrily, merrily, merrily.
Day 1
If there was a bright golden moon on the meadow the night before I checked into the hospital for my operation, I was not aware of it. I packed my overnight bag the day before: clothes to come home in, a book or two to read. Nothing heavy. A toothbrush and my notebook. Never leave home without a toothbrush, and I always have my notebook with me so I can write down the sparkling epiphanies that I later turn into stories. Just be glad I’m not a poet.
I wish I had thought then to joke about the wide variety of coffins available in oak, rosewood, cedar, etc., handles carefully coordinated with the wood. All come with a box of plain pine toothpicks.
We planned, deciding the hell with the moon on the meadow, we’d come in at 5 AM for the procedure at 6:30. Easy-peasy. They put my carry-on bag in my recovery room. My kids showed up minutes before they put me out, giving me thumbs up and smiles and blowing kisses over the tubes in my arms.
Ouch! Next thing I know I’m in one of the recovery rooms. Lots of pain, plenty of meds. Been there, done it. Fifteen years earlier when I had colon cancer. Surgery then caught it all. I was sliced sternum to groin. They wanted a good look-see while I was open. Look they did for hours and, thank heaven, snipped out what I didn’t want and found no other surprises. It took months though to get back muscle tone, which was one of the reasons I opted for the robotic surgery.
And then I’m moved again for my overnight stay…or so I thought. But when I wake there are my surgeons milling around at the head of the bed and they aren’t smiling. Yup, they snipped around as discussed. They are singing a duet, “Bye, bye prostate, goodbye. We drove our snippers close to your spine.” Remember, I’m heavily sedated and have a naturally happy disposition. For a moment I thought that “spine” was a euphemism for “penis.” But, finally, their words seep in. “We’re afraid you’re bleeding like a pig. We’re monitoring your blood, and it appears you don’t have enough. We’ll get you down to the Big Room again, under the bright lights and try to cauterize what we can cauterize.” Sorry I didn’t think to record this for later transcription.
I think I went clunk-clunk with my eyes, but my brain goes into overdrive. Tell them you’ll chew up a big wad of bubblegum they can stick in the holes. Doubt that they would have laughed. Surprised myself. Hate to miss an opportunity to joke. Life is too short. Must have been the loss of blood.
I had a couple of ups and downs that day. We have a morning run-through when my wife comes back from breakfast. Then down for the matinee and again for an evening performance. Ah, if I only had time, I would have organized a pickle line with the brothers carrying signs with truncated pickles: Cauterize my pickle? Not on my watch. Unconsciously I suspect my clock is ticking out.
Next time I’m compos mentis, I mutter, “Ta-ta, Ladies and Gentlemen, back by popular demand after a limited engagement off Broadway, we give you the prostate.”
Well, there was morning and there was evening with concerned visits by one and all from near and far. I have overnight company. Sad to say, I can’t remember what was on the late show or late-late show. Have no idea they were already editing the script for the lately show. Go figure.
Day 2
There’s always good news and bad news. I’ll give you the short list first: the good news. I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to pee. Not once. I don’t have to get up at 10 PM, I don’t have to get up at midnight, I don’t have to get up at 2 AM, and I don’t have to get up at 4 AM. Catheters are wonderful. You make a connection with them that is meaningful and pray they’ll stay in you, not that you’re thinking, “Until death do we part.” A detached catheter can be as troublesome as a detached retina. You don’t want to know from either.
But I’m sufficiently doped up not to worry. Heck, some of the meds must have put me in a fighting mood: “Go on; throw your best punch.” They do. At some point the docs come in when I’m awake. They want to make sure the bandages are OK, or change them, and of course they take a look at the “equipment.”
Oh my. Talk about passion fruit. Testicles the size of large lemons. And that’s just for starters. My docs are comforting. “They’ll get bigger for a couple more days, turn black and blue. They take quite a beating because of the procedure.” I don’t look at my wife. I’m sure she didn’t bat an eye, and I wasn’t going to throw any balls her way, especially mine. They were already in a bad state.
I catch myself in time. “Beating? Really? You talk about beating at a time like this? My wife and daughter are in the rooooom.” My balls hurt. Even if I can’t feel anything, judging by their size and color – they hurt! I can’t quite work out how they thought I could masturbate with all the tubes in my arms. No way am I going to beat the meat, not even for old time’s sake. What are they thinking? I’m sure I was still woozy from the anesthetic or the pain meds.
My wife or daughter ask something but by then the effort to listen, even to the background hum, had tired me out. I close my eyes and when I open them again, they – the doctors, my wife and daughter – are coming back into the room. It’s never a good sign when you can’t talk in front of the patient.
I recall something about needing more blood. There’s a red bag hanging on the tripod wheely thing next to my bed. I think it’s red since it isn’t time for the sun to set and my windows face east.
In the middle of the night, my brain crawls out of its stupor. Not my body. That’s down for the count. I roll my eyes to the window. Only darkness creeps in around the edges of the blinds. It feels as if it’s a good moment to take stock. I swallow, beginning to doubt I’ll come out of this alive.
We had discussed this with the urologist. “There’s probably a lot of scar tissue down there around the site of your prostate from the resection when they snipped out your colon cancer. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Well, I guess it was. I heard them reminding my wife that they had mentioned that scar tissue doesn’t take well to being pushed around. Not much give. More like thin dried parchment. I heard them tell her mine was bleeding like a sieve and they’d be going back in the next morning to see if they could cauterize more of the surface. Not to worry. Easy for them to say. This conversation, sotto voce, was hanging in time on one of those days when everything was druggy-painfully hazy. I’m writing it here for posterity.
Another fuzzy idea floats around inside my skull. Like when you’re about to die, time becomes a tight spiral, moments becoming minutes and form into long strands of spaghetti, whirlpooling down the drain in a large stainless steel sink. You’re riding on one strand and can look over your shoulders to either side, seeing things that happened as well as things that are going to happen in the little time left to you. Comforting? I don’t know. I think I heard a slurp before I fall back asleep.
Day 3
Day three does have its ups and downs. They come early to wheel me down to surgery. I’m up again in my room in time for lunch. La-di-da. See, present tense, no worries at all, not a care in the world. Not much of an appetite and I think they disconnected the feeding tube. In my condition you don’t want to take on roughage. As they say, garbage in – garbage out! Sitting down on the toilet isn’t the first thing I want to do. My balls are even bigger. Purple. I think of passion fruit. Decide not to share this insight with my wife. Poor timing, especially if I’m checking out.
I’m here – or rather there. Room 11364. Eleventh floor, a room with a view, not that I’m looking, and if I looked, I’m not remembering. I’m pretty sure one tube had a button gismo. Too much pain, push the button. They said it releases morphine. Fun city. I push when no one is looking and push again – double tap when you’re dealing with a killer. And continue pushing even when they’re looking. My little game, like with the daisy: I push it, I push it not. I call their attention to ducks flying by or a cloud that reminds me of a horse. I no longer remember the horse I rode in on and I don’t care.
In my more lucid moments, I ask for my notebook. Said I think it would be fun someday to look back at all this and laugh. Ha – Ha. Must have been my rides on the spaghetti going down the drain that helped going forward and back to fill in the empty spaces. Slurp – it’s a noisy drain. You’d think they could do better in a hospital. I fall asleep.
When I wake later that afternoon I notice visitors. My son came down from St. Paul. No, I got that backwards/ass. My daughter came down the first day, stayed on. My son lives here in town. They are both standing at the foot of the bed; they’ve been here all along.
“How’re you doing, Pops?”
“Still here. Guess that’s the good news. They’re trying to goop my guts to stop the bleeding. Maybe I should have kept the stuff we used on my old beater?”
“Nah, Dad. By now it would be way past its best-used-by date.”
“Yeh, maybe me too. You kids get supper yet? Treat’s on me. Mom will take you. Thanks for coming. I’m kind of tired. Going to close my eyes for a while.”
I recall they come over and kiss me on the forehead. My daughter says I need to shave but I look good. My son reports he’s called my drinking buddy in Madison who promises to come in tomorrow to visit. At least that’s what I think I heard.
My wife squeezes my hand. I’m sure of that. She says they’ll be back in an hour and not to go anyplace without her.
The next time I look at the clock it’s 9 PM. My kids and wife are sitting around the room. Both kids – heck they’re in their forties – are sprawled on the floor, sitting on cushions. My wife looks as if she’s asleep on the recliner. I think she has been camping out there the last two nights. I couldn’t see that far from the spaghetti. I cough and whisper, “What does a guy got to do to get a beer around here?”
The kids are first to my side. “Dad, you’re awake.”
“If you can call it that.”
My wife joins them. “Do you think you’re up for a walk?”
“Well, I can’t be down for a walk. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to stretch the old bod. Use it or lose it. Yeh, the nurses have been prodding me to get up and walk. It’s a regular wagon train with all the shit I got to pull along. Let’s see if we can go for a personal best. Two nursing stations! And then that beer and to bed. I’m really hurting.”
Two nursing stations, clean linen, three kisses, and sleep. No beer.
Day 4
I rally somewhat. Got busy filling in days 1 - 3 in my notebook. Smiles. I’m always smiling as if I’m on candid camera. Why should I poop anyone’s party? A couple of friends came in from out of town. We play the “You remember when game?” If I didn’t, they did. Another smile. “Yeh. Been there, done that.” But I’m still smiling. Serious, not many people can say “been there, done that.” There are lots of good memories. No complaints.
Of course, there are more than a couple of memories that aren’t so nice. A whole pack of regrets when I was being an asshole. It’s part of being human, I guess. If we meet up later in the good old by and by, I’ll ask forgiveness, but of course by then I won’t have any meat in the game or on the bone. You’d hope. Doubt Tony would like to shake my decomposing hand when I tell him I’m sorry I never returned his sawbuck. I mean ten bucks was ten bucks back then. As for “jilted” girlfriends – nah, saying I’m sorry for being such an asshole would be too little too late.
So, I’m playing Mr. Nice Guy for all my company while my back brain is doing a replay of the music I like. Mostly chamber music. Blues and jazz, too. I was lucky in my likes. Luckier still growing up in New York City. Going to be a long list. I’ll set it on random play. There are lots of good stories, too. I don’t think any are boring, but I don’t have the strength to write them all down. Hah, I guess I’ll take some of them to the grave with me as if they’re top secrets. But you’re not getting off scot-free.
When I was an undergrad, I often went to the old Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway and 39th Street. I bought standing room tickets. You’d line up against the building, waiting hours before a performance for the rush tickets. There was a guy with a contraption selling roasted chestnuts. I can’t remember the price. He was always singing an aria but only God knew which one – he had a horrible voice. We’d joke, “Yeh, but he always sings to standing room crowds!”
There was an automat across the street where you could buy matzah ball soup all year long. On cold days or nights that was a treat. People would save your place in line. Or you could get a cup of tea and use the rest rooms downstairs.
But the best story is how I was responsible for the change in dress code. I always tried to stand behind the orchestra seats in line with the conductor. It was under the overhang of the parterre one level up, so I didn’t think I was visible. Turns out I was. I’d dress up for the opera. If it was cold outside, I’d wear a white ski sweater with a green and red V across the chest. One intermission, one of the ushers (they were all friends with us regulars) came rushing back, told me to put on my coat and button up. The singers were complaining that someone in back was also “conducting” – that was me – and it was distracting them. I’m not very musical and have trouble keeping tempo. But I sway back and forth with the music. Next week there was a notice about a dress code posted in a corner of the box office window: shirts with collars are required for standing room. Da-da-da-dum!
I met a lot of famous musicians. Even shook the violinist David Oistrakh’s hand after a recital in Hunter College High School auditorium. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t too far from the Russian Mission on Park Avenue or the Henry George School. He played Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata. Wow. His hand was like soft butter. I didn’t wash my hands for a week.
I heard long jazz sessions in bars where John Coltrane, Yusef Lateef, and others played. Lateef told me a story about his Chinese globular flute. I’ll tell you next time round just in case it was the beer talking. Hint: check out his Eastern Sounds album.
When I was a kid I shook Jackie Robinson’s hand – for that honor, two weeks I didn’t wash my hands. You’re lucky if you have lots of heroes! As I said, a full life.
Be nice meeting them again. Next, I open my eyes, my wife is whispering in my ear, “Maybe you can try eating something. I brought up a little chicken soup.”
I slurp some down. And then we take a spin around the corridor and nursing stations. I find where they keep the snacks and abscond with two packets of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies for later.
When we return to the room, I wash up as best I can, even brush my teeth. Then it’s beddy-bye. I’m thinking I’ll save the cookies for later.
Day 5
Day 4 went fast. Either that or the pain meds are doing a number on my sense of time. Of course it could have been the company. I wasn’t surprised that I felt weaker when I woke up in the morning. I vaguely remember nurses waking me a couple of times during the night to take my vitals. Wanted to tell them to fuck off but it wasn’t worth the effort. They probably upped the pain meds so I could sleep better. If there was some kind of master plan, they weren’t telling me.
I think at some point I hear the doctors telling my wife they’ll try to keep me comfortable. But the spaghetti is going down the drain and with the meds and stuff this can well be day 4 or day 6. I never was that fastidious for details or anything else as my wife will tell you.
Yeh, now I recall. The docs come over to one side of the bed and my wife is on the other. There’s bright light coming in from the windows, so I can’t see her face all that clearly. One of the doctors clears his throat. “There are a couple of things we’d like you to consider.” And then they blab on and on. I think my wife’s crying, but I pretend not to hear. I close my eyes and turn away. I fall asleep.
When I wake there’s that grey, dungy color you sometimes get before it gets dark. I think it’s funny; I seem to have gone straight from morning to evening. The room’s empty. I cough a couple of times. Everything hurts. The room’s preternaturally quiet – never used that preter word before, never too late – and I consider delivering my farewell speech. “I had a dream…” or maybe it was “It’s never too late to party…” I’m not sure which one to choose and I push the call button, closing my eyes again.
Next, I know it is dark, and I’m not sure if my wife’s back in the room.
I open my eyes and whisper, “Anyone home?”
She must have been reading or fallen asleep with a book on her lap. I hear something fall and next she’s at the side of my bed. “I’m here, honey.”
I think she said “funny” and smile, thinking I’ve finally made it after all these years. I’m funny and can’t remember what it was that I said.
Tell her I’d like a beer. You can’t blame me for trying. I wonder if in prison, when they offer the guy on death row his last meal if he also can choose something to drink? Didn’t think it could hurt, and it wasn’t like I was going to go out and race the car up and down Wisconsin Avenue.
Next thing I know, I’m falling asleep again, recalling how when she gave birth the first time, I snuck a couple of bottles of Guiness up to her room. “Studies show it’s good for nursing mothers.” Amazing what you can recall on drugs.
The button must be working. I’m hearing the duet from Bach’s Cantata Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, “Mein Freund ist mein.” I’m positive I started singing, “Und ich bin dein,” before I crash.
Yup, Bach’s the best. Cantata BWV 140: Sleepers Awake. “My friend is mine, and I am his.” We used to play it on our anniversary in the good old days.
Day 6
Talk about shitty days and nights. I wake with a real winner of a headache, wondering if they finally broke down and gave me a beer. I wasn’t totally losing it. I know I asked for one. Chicken-shit docs keep a low profile otherwise I would have beaten a six-pack out of them. Had to use “chin language” to get someone to raise the bed. I look around the room. Wife and kids are smiling as if the sun is out and a gentle breeze blowing across something, maybe fields of alfalfa or whatever.
Then I recall last night my daughter had played some Bach violin partitas on her smart phone. I gave myself a TO DO for the day: make a playlist of my faves, store them up in my noggin to take on the long trip ahead. I was owning up to the fact that it was probably going to be long and one way – no way was I worried that it was going to be final. So, I may as well listen to what I like as we merrily roll along. I figure ecologically they’ll put a bunch of us on the same bus, wondering if they’d ask with whom we wanted to sit, like the question they ask authors in the Sunday Times Book Review section: if you had a dinner party, which three authors would you invite? I could live with the fact that maybe plebians only get to choose their seatmate. I guess no one ever thought to ask if the invitees have the right of refusal.
I think NPR is fine, but I didn’t want to hear the news once I was gone. Selfish, but hell – not my problem. Didn’t want to hear bad news from around the world, or worse yet, a Washington correspondent telling me I was on my way out. Sort of got that news already from how people were tiptoeing around the room. Heck, I’m good to go.
But just in case anyone asks, I’d have music from Gluck’s opera Orfeo ed Euridice. Especially the aria Che farò senza Euridice. “Where are you going, Euridice? What will I do without my love?” Funny how things get turned around. It’s me that’s going and my wife’s staying. And I probably have those words turned around, too. But it’s my playlist so I get to say, “Play them as they lay, Sam!” And then I remember it goes on to lament, “There’s no help, no hope for me.” Well, the music is pretty, and I can recall a happy ending. Besides, I can always hit my nose – the skip button for my brain – if I don’t like it.
The rest of the day is mostly a blur. If they didn’t put anything in my drink they certainly did in my drip. Hey, I want to talk to the manager!
Day 7
I can barely open my eyes this morning. I think yesterday is going to be the last where I was able to focus clearly. I feel someone squeezing my hand. It’s my wife. Years ago, we decided to practice hand squeezes, late at night, eyes closed, just so we could recognize each other anywhere and anytime. So, it’s her. Knew she’d be at my side at the end. She’s brave. Been a great companion all these years.
I open my hand so I can concentrate on the music. A little upbeat Handel from the Messiah. “I know that my redeemer liveth.” I take that as a sign of eternal life. He comes back, we come back. “I know my time is coming,” just can’t remember where it is – the aria. Looked this over and see I didn’t mention the Hallelujah chorus. Guess I didn’t feel there was anything to holler over.
I must have had some premonition of this, maybe when my PSA numbers started to skyrocket. I was surfing on the internet and found this lovely aria from Serse, an opera by Handel: Ombra mai fù. It celebrates the beauty of shade from a tree. I’m going to miss nature and camping alongside a river, but at least I’ve got a new friend, a countertenor I never heard before. And I never would have heard him sing this aria if I wasn’t going to die.
Somehow, I can tell when there’s nobody in the room. I sneak one eye open and then the other. Yup. It’s dark, but there’s a reading light still on next to the recliner. Everyone must have gone out for supper. I had squirreled my little notebook under my pillow along with a couple of pens. At this point, I wouldn’t want to go bust if a pen goes dry. Out they come and I scratch away at memories of one day or another.
Like I said, while you’re going down the drain on a strand of spaghetti, you can see over to the next couple of days, get the details down, write it like it is. Then into the envelope, addressed and stamped in advance. I did that when I packed for my supposed overnight surgery. Just in case. Prescient, another one of those fancy pre words.
I must be the seventh son of the seventh son and knew that this shit was going down. So, I take this opportunity to finish up these last days, then it’s sayonara. It’s going to be short and sweet (well maybe not). I finish and push the call button. Worked it out with the nurses days ago. They’re going to mail it, it’s addressed to my son, he’ll bring it over to my wife a week after I’m buried. Note to him explains it all. When he was a kid we’d watch old horror films on TV – Stories from the Crypt, something like that. He’ll understand.
At this point, nothing seems that important, and I’m really, really tired. But I said that before. I’m guessing five minutes until the final button. God Bless, seems like appropriate last words. God Bless.
Day 8
Dead and gone. I’m getting colder. No pain though. Then quiet. A drop or two of salty water. I guess everyone’s back from supper. I slept through it all. Funny, funny, funny. Then there’s some prodding. Hmm. Stirring around. Disconnects. Bye, bye catheter. Not a moment too soon. A gentle lift onto a hospital transport bed. Blanket, too tight around my toes and heavy on my nose. I’m guessing the service elevator is express to the basement. Be nice to sit up on the way down, go “BOO!” Ask if it’s Halloween and where are my Lorna Doone cookies. But I’m a sport. For once in my life, I zip it just like they’ll be zipping me into a body bag.
Bit cooler here. Some paperwork while I wait. And then I feel the bed slowly rising. Damn, I’m finally going to be topdrawer. Sliding in. And then, as the door is closed, I hear that wonderful aria from Couperin’s Motet de Sainte-Suzanne: O Suzzanne, O Suzzane. My wife’s name is Susan. Oh, oh, Susan!
Story Playlist:
Musical links:
Bach. This wiki link has some of the music in inserts further down in the article:
Gluck. Several are on You Tube. Here’s one from the Irish National Opera. Note the singers are all women as that was the custom back then and that was how it was written:
Couperin: the aria is O Suzanne sorry I can’t find it as a separate link
And lastly Oh Suzanne Couperin:
https://www.google.com/search?q=motet+a+sainte+suzanne&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS873US873&oq=&gs_lcrp=EgZjaHJvbWUqCQgAEEUYOxjCAzIJCAAQRRg7GMIDMgkIARBFGDsYwgMyCQgCEEUYOxjCAzIJCAMQRRg7GMIDMhMIBBAAGAMYChhCGI8BGLQCGOoCMhEIBRAAGAMYQhiPARi0AhjqAjIRCAYQABgDGEIYjwEYtAIY6gIyEQgHEAAYAxhCGI8BGLQCGOoC0gEJMTkyMWowajE1qAIIsAIB&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#vhid=jkbxndqy0BB0eM&vssid=videos-c8ccce51
Photo of Kenneth M. Kapp
BIO: Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. His essays appear online in havokjournal.com and articles in shepherdexpress.com. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com. His stories have appeared in more than eighty publications world-wide including The Saturday Evening Post and October Hill Magazine.