Jed Wolf

“Get me the fuck off this magic wand,” I thought before I woke up, gyrating on a broomstick to a country song, wondering if wearing a different pair of jeans might make my message more universal. 

Despite being a lifelong cynic, people tell me what a pleasure I am to know. At this point, even If I could heal myself, I wouldn’t. Discontent is key to my charm. I’ve worked hard to be real about it ’cause if others been more honest about theirs along the way, it would’ve been easier on everyone.

I’m pretty good at a lot, but I suck at being happy. After returning home from the ICU, yesterday I spent most of the day in bed and here I am again this morning after another night twisting and turning, needing to clear the air. Facebook posts I sent from the hospital made it seem like “speaking up” saved my life, but that wasn’t quite true.

However hard on myself posting about this detail may sound, the grim reaper insisted I explain. My adherence to “bro code,” nearly killed me as I squirmed in stoic tears.

There were no women nurses in surgery. The six or so men all wore masks, which as we know, makes reading strangers difficult. Nevertheless, I tried and was doing pretty good at acting brave and personable without offending anyone. Acting too gay on an operating table in the South is not advisable. 

Though I’d never say anything like, “what about them Gators,” as usual, I was more focused on others’ peace of mind than my own. Therapy hasn’t stopped self-sacrifice. I’ve heard Buddha and Jesus recommend it. Though I wish it wasn’t so vital, the murky subject of providing “service,” whether to self or others these days feels as urgent as attending to a condom ready to explode. 

Had I screamed, “Whatever you’re doing is fucking killing me,” sooner, the surgeon might have pressed the morphine button to shut me up and continued oblivious to my other completely blocked artery threatening to kill me. I’m not interested in what miracle intervened. All I know is how miserable remaining silent at that moment has always felt. 

People want to know how I am but I’m reticent to tell them. Well-intentioned counsel like silencing is the last thing I’ve ever longed to hear. “Last night’s nosebleed from my new blood thinners stained my pillow. My heart still hurts and I’m not grateful for anything,” I’d say to neighbors walking which is why I haven’t left the house.

The ballooned artery the surgeon worked on looked like a condom full of water in the monitor. “Just a few more moments,” I kept hearing as they placed the stent into its blockage. Meanwhile the other one just like it had inexplicably occluded. “You’ll feel better any second, “I heard as the pain become intolerable. Rather than screaming, “Fuuuuuuuck,” I bit the bullet and said nothing like in a John Wayne movie ‘til my nerves began to thrash me like a headless chicken.

Speaking up didn’t save my life. I was as silent as anyone getting slammed into a wrestling mat in junior high. Lying about it afterward by telling a nice story to sound “lucky” and “grateful” was akin to “bro-code.”

Imagine explaining this at the Pearly Gates.

Though it doesn’t feel good to admit, it’s necessary for me to say I’m not proud and don’t feel grateful, or lucky to be merely alive. I’ll take a swing or two at “letting go” of this whole thing for Dave’s sake but know it’s lessons will sit among my other simmering trophies forever.

Twenty years ago, something similar happened. Dave rushed me into emergency flailing before passing out and the stone-faced receptionist asked, “How do you know he’s having a heart attack?”

It’s not just men. It’s code. We’re “carefully taught” to be skeptical of one another for good reason. I can wish ‘till the cows come home for something other than pain to make humans more sensitive. I could give up on this side of the mountain altogether and ponder the almighty but choose not to.

Twenty years ago, after Dave screamed, “Every idiot knows the symptoms of a heart attack,” nurses heard him and rushed me in to the operating room. (It’s amusing how patiently I’d have waited if given half a chance.) After I vanished, the begrudging receptionist ignored Dave’s continued requests for information for hours. After reporting her, we heard she was fired from a job no one should have for too long. 

Even I surprise myself at how little gratitude I felt yesterday, returning home from the ICU, waving to neighbors, avoiding friends, and stepping tentatively though my yard with lingering chest pain. I’m glad everyone is relieved, but I want to scream “fuuuuuck,” and continue piercing the veil, thus this writing. 

Lying under the covers yesterday, I dreamt I shared a motel room with a teacher who blew me regularly during high school. The motel room was full of our stuff like we’d been sharing it it a very long time. 

Some may think it’s therapeutic for me to mention such things. If so, I ought to feel amazing by now. The world’s never been safe. It’s not heading that way now and all I know is whatever this brush with death unearthed feels urgent.

Life didn’t flash before my eyes lying there. What it dug up is raw and pure. Gratitude is a platitude, (you can quote me on that,) I choose not to have my face smushed into right now. I’d rather not emerge like a zombie, lucky to maintain the status quo. This thing has ripped me open. Though no one’s asked about it, this is also about my head. 

When I realized the motel room was just a dream, I chuckled at the cruel subconscious slap in the face so soon after my ordeal but wasn’t surprised. 

After failing to let go of my shit throughout my life, I’m grateful impotent efforts to “heal myself” haven’t made me entirely a misanthrope, lulled me to sleep or subdued my need to relate honestly with others. 

After this heart attack, the only things I’m grateful for are my friends, the amount of crap I still have to fuel my ride forward and the time it will take to burn through it.