Laying A Life Of Fanship On The Line

Today is not the anniversary of anything notable regarding the life or death of Jerry Jeff Walker, my personal musical hero. So what am I doing here? It's something I couldn't really form in my head, immediately after hearing of his demise, from complications of throat cancer in October of 2020 — a summing up of my feelings, of grief, and gratitude in general, of his contribution to my emotional wellbeing throughout my life.

The closest I ever came to actually meeting the man, was painting him a comical portrait of a cowpoke standing at the horse "Trigger's" grave, with "Here lies Trigger; He just couldn't Go No Mo" in a mock comic-lyrical eulogy — a chuckle, more than any editorial comment; a memento which I entrusted to a bartender who'd assured me he was connected to the crew of an upcoming live Walker appearance at a local venue — and that he'd get it to my hero's people. I'd graphically dedicated the artwork to Walker. "Rest easy brother" I was assured… I had no cash for a ticket. I never found out whether Jerry Jeff had ever seen it, much less accepted it.

That's showbiz.

I first discovered the 'outlaw genius' of Walker's music… how? I have two possible routes, and one of them has to be the right one. The Viva Terlingua years were recent history, and Walker was a guest performer on a TV show I happened to watch regularly — he seemed a tall, lean drink of water with a guitar and a stranger's sneer. One of the tunes he conjured was 'Contrary To Ordinary,' a subject that resonated somehow. I was hooked almost immediately, and made a mental note of the artist's name — it was easy to hold onto; a three-name, five syllable moniker… even a slight illiteration. Jerry Jeff… Walker. It was still on my mind during my next trip to Tower Records.

Tower was a music lovers' Disneyland then… LPs, 8-Tracks and that new convenient format for new music aficionados, cassettes! Yeah, Cassette Tapes were a new thing then.

I'd had plenty of blank cassettes, and had operated as if the only kind of cassette tapes available retail were blank… for one's cassette recorder, to be recorded upon. Cassette recorders attached to radios and therefor capable of recording directly off the air, were a revelation — a technological marvel. The concept of a prerecorded music album available as a Cassette Tape was an original idea that everyone wondered why it had taken so long to come about! At least in the part of the country where I lived and worked.

Tower Records possessed a new section to browse: the cassette albums. Soon, they also had that natural follow-up section, the Budget Bin — for cassettes. It was there that I happened to be browsing when my memory bank suddenly asked "and how about that Jerry Jeff guy?"

The most attractive feature of bargain cassettes was that they were Big Bargains; the budget selection was already offering product at merely a dollar each. And there… the muses smiled upon me. Each for only a dollar, were the albums A Good Night For Singing and Cow Jazz, two prominent — and then, fairly new — Jerry Jeff Walker offerings!

There was no debate which to get, they both were carefully placed in my cart, immediately. I HAD to hear more of this guy, whomever he was… and learn as much as I could about him! The fact that both albums had been sent to Dollar Bin Purgatory made no discernible difference to my listening tastes.

I don't recall what else I found and bought, that trip to Tower… I had procured sought-after treasure, for a most reasonable price.

So was that TV show appearance, or those two cassettes, my first actual indulgence into Jerry Jeff's universe? Between the two disparate measures, I'd made a crucial decision, that THIS GUY was now a permanent denizen of my music collection! And I never, ever, regretted it.

By this time, his 'Greatest Hit' Mr. Bojangles and its fabeled legacy were simply a vague reference point. I'd heard Sammy Davis sing it well before I ever heard Walker's original. I had already known whom Tom Waits was, and owned a copy of his Swordfish Trombone, upon which resided his addictive 'The Piano Has Been Drinking.' The incredulity floored me, that the first Walker recording I heard from that purchase, on Good Night For Singing, was the Waits tune, 'Heart of a Saturday Night,' covered by Walker in his own style — fast and rowdy at first, then calmed down to a ballad briefly before the fade-out. This already flirted with the award Best Music Purchase of the Year, in my world.

He'd created a whole new — and decidedly more palatable — take of Tom Waits. And a few minutes later, Jerry Jeff frosted the cake, with a song that promptly took a spot among my Personal Top Ten, where it remains to this day: 'Couldn't Do Nothin' Right.' It was a tune that spoke to me personally, tugged at my heartstrings, and rang with melancholy truth. A song that alone would eventually account for my wearing the tape out with repeated play, and necessitate a search for a replacement, and yet once more again, when Compact Discs evolved into the new 'preferred' format of serious music consumers.

As the following years rolled on, I discovered that even Jerry Jeff's supposedly sad music had a unique quality of lightening my emotional load, of cheering me up. It gave me a melodic assurance that I was somehow not alone. That others felt these emotions, had these troubles, processed them in ways similar to how I did.

My parents had been avid Country & Western Music fans, but their tastes were common and mainstream; traditional AM Radio fare; steel guitars, banjos, fiddles… with names of stars I'd heard many times on The Grand Ol' Opry program and all its related, packaged TV shows. Porter Wagoner, Loretta Lynn, Buck Owens, et al. Here, in my own life, was a figure they'd never heard of; a purveyor of a similar genre, but not an exact one. 'Outlaw Country' was just emerging. But what did it really mean?

There are plenty of alternate definitions of Outlaw Country, but though Jerry Jeff's influence may have been partially responsible for it, it was evolving away, even from that independent outpost. The term "Gonzo" became a thing. It was Folk-Rock-Outlaw… with emphasis on Backporch Relaxed. It viewed life with a chuckle and a melancholy tear. It found its roots in the free-wheeling but precarious 'Busking' life that Jerry Jeff had traveled to find himself at the secure and stable husband and family-man destinations he'd arrived at yet without abandoning his origins, symbolized by spouse Susan Streit… and where he had contentedly remained. Being a Jerry Jeff Walker fan was a statement of pride in that journey, and with its destiny, while still being just a tad jealous of his success.

Jerry Jeff accomplished that ultimate pinnacle in the modern music business; he owned his own label, and his career was not diminished by its self-imposed isolation. His manager was his wife — and her role was not one of nepotism, but became one of logistical genius.

Walker became synonymous with the Austin, Texas music scene — other "top names" were organs of Nashville, Tennessee, but none were its most vital. The Traditional Country Music Capitol survived as its hub whomever was prominent at the moment, even after the passing of nearly all its most ubiquitous stars, Ernest Tubb, Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Roy Acuff, Johnny Cash and all the rest. But Jerry Jeff Walker was Austin. If you talked Austin music, you eventually talked Walker.

Along with Jerry Jeff, one got around to discussing and appreciating the names connected, closely or distantly, to him; Gary P. Nunn, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Austin's Guitar God John Inmon — who played lead in Walker's ensemble, and a dozen more of the Lost Gonzo Universe. If one got hardcore, also listed was the group Circus Maximus, upon whose Byrds-inspired tracks Jerry Jeff's smooth, youthful baritone vocals flowed like country wine. Jerry Jeff brought about newbies' appreciation of talents unknown to fringe-coastal fans — the Guy Clarks, the Townes Van Zandts… to arrive at Walker's connections to the few traditional 'outlaws' like, oh, Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings.

Walker's full biography is chronicled elsewhere, by historians far more steeped in it. Yes, he wasn't originally a country boy, but a New Yorker named Paul Crosby... It's out there to be read. My purpose here is to describe what Walker became to me, a very average listener appreciative and caught up in the awe of the offbeat legend — the obsession from an outsider's perspective.

My obsession first fully revealed itself as a legitimate mania, with the discovery of an unnamed music catalog that had revealed the existence of the double-album A Man Must Carry On. I had no idea of its content, but I had to possess a copy… and could find it nowhere. The catalog listed it as 'sold out.' My good buddy from college, then currently working as a clerk at Wherehouse, sent a query out and found it was 'out of print.' After that defeat, I'd consigned myself as denied a cherished find.

That is until the Tower Records Bargain Cassette bin struck once more. The downside was that the second cassette cartridge in the set had a flaw and tangled irrepairably due to its age, or perhaps its cheapness. But I had sides A and B, if not C and D. The bottom-line: I wound up buying another copy of the set, when another showed up elsewhere, even at a steeper price, just to possess one complete set. A music lover must carry on. One of the prominent tracks on the double album was 'L.A. Freeway' written by Guy Clark, which introduced me to Walker's legendary random blurt of "Turn me loose, I'll never be the same!" to the live crowd listening. And the song itself became an anthem, during my own life's adventures in southern California, 'taking Hollywood by storm.' Also new revelations were his inclusion of the Hondo Crouch vocal of 'Luchenbach Moon' — which introduced me to the Hondo chapter of Walker's biography.

I never found every single one of Walker's albums, but his songs overlapped on so many other albums, that I eventually owned everything I loved, and/or deemed necessary. Today when something of Walker's catalog that I've never heard before, crops up, it's a pleasant surprise and a trip, awkwardly, down memory lane.

Walker did not write every one of his iconic recordings, but in many cases, became so associated with a given tune that it in turn became believed that he wrote it. A case in point was Paul Seibel's lazily melodic 'Long Afternoons.' Even a Bob Dylan work found itself briefly under the Walker spell — 'One Too Many Mornings.'

But as Jerry Jeff's life sped along and constantly evolved, so did the tone of his own music. The arrival of his children brought with them gems in his productivity like 'She Knows Her Daddy Sings,' 'Django's Lullaby,' and Walker's now perennial favorite 'The Pickup Truck Song,' which referenced his own childhood and early life — including Hondo — as well as those of his kids.

As Hondo Crouch, the founder of the musical tourist stop "town" of Luchenbach, Texas is both represented and honored in Walker's universe — the man and his landmark — so is the progress of Walker's own family that in its way carries on the tradition.

But the one drawback to the direction of Walker's output was his departure of the busker's philosophy, its sole focus becoming the retelling of his life story in song. Not a bad drawback, but a one-note direction; every lyric self-referential, every title a chapter heading of a same book.

Gone were the outlaw-poignance of lost loves and old roads walked at daybreak, that had enchanted me so as in the heart-string tugs of A Good Night For Singing and Reunion. Now albums like Moon Child and Scamp merely regaled Walker's listeners with musical photo albums of eras past. Those were good times, but they had all previously been celebrated — in albums that were themselves already definitive.

Though not exactly a fixture on radio, even on dedicated country stations, and rarely on television, Walker's sound and muse permeated. The ultimate sublime moment happened one afternoon in a suburban liquor store… I stood at the magazine rack, reaching for the latest issue of Mad. Over the store's sound system suddenly roared 'Let 'Er Go,' Walker's late-life anthem, celebrating the reminiscent look back upon his own life from the comforting trail's end of Belize, Walker's final residence. The clerks smiled, and semi-danced a subtle jig to it. Willie Nelson can't boast that.

Indy country music star Mark Dollar's rendition of 'Long Afternoons' — available to hear on Youtube — explores the territory to which Walker opened a crucial door, and subliminally invited his fans, those whom were also musicians, to navigate.

Walker's musical legacy is respected, even by those not into country music per se. He went from a young man walking a highway from New York to New Orleans, a guitar on his back, to music industry legend cherished and explored by the devoutly curious. From troubadour to star, to an aesthetic — how far a journey lived, and how self-absolute can that be?

Jerry Jeff Walker blew minds with his music, and blew them again by passing away — like a mere mortal — at 78, October 23, 2020 — from throat cancer. The same death as other icons, like Sammy Davis, Eddie Van Halen, George Harrison, and even Humphrey Bogart.

"Best-Of's" of various titles, and concert albums, abounded. Walker's final young musical ward — the Robin to his Batman — Todd Snider, allowed us all to rediscover Walker's legacy with a fresh take. On the day of Walker's demise, Snider posted a live solo concert on Youtube, before a video camera alone, to a grateful online audience; his tribute to the man, featuring a "greatest hits" list of Walker gems. He concluded by adding the most vulnerable of all Walker tunes, 'Laying My Life On The Line' and commenting that any young musician in search of his or her performance soul, should look up his late big buddy. I second that. Amen.

It's a shame how irrelevant your dreams became.

A stroke. You read about them, and the ordeals some of your life's heroes had struggling with them as they got older. You see them warned about, in pamphlets and medical postings online; zippy illustrations and abbreviated lists of symptoms.

They sound dreadful, and as one ages, something is always swimming in the backwaters of one's mind, to be on the lookout for those symptoms. They serve a warning. But none of them showed up to warn me.

Like a trolling shark that knows not to let its dorsal fin protrude from the water into view… but just glides silently beneath the surface, searching stealthily for its prey… patiently waiting for its prey to happen along… and mess up in its vigil of being 'on guard' — distracted — busy doing something else…

The foreboding headache, the slurred speech, the facial paralysis and mental lapse, the stiffening and sudden difficulty of one's bodily movements — all failed to make their appearances.

But 'Send In The Clowns' anyway.

It was a Monday, which with my current work schedule, was a day off. That much was in my favor. One moment I was brightly aware, sipping coffee, perusing through my social media accounts, and in the next moment I was suddenly — surprisingly — rundown tired, fighting to keep my eyes open.

I trudged into the bedroom for a quick catnap. I was drained. Maybe it was a delayed reaction somehow? Maybe I'd just gotten up that late morning too soon? Perhaps I'd not allowed a full night's sleep to get its job done? I glanced at the clock and saw roughly three o'clock; a drowsy afternoon. My head touched the pillow, and I relaxed into place. All was normal, if a bit puzzling. I paid that no mind, and dozed, beginning with a long, softly exhausted sigh, and was then… out.

I was just as suddenly wide awake ninety-or-so minutes later. I stared at the ceiling and noticed something slightly… off about it. I sat up, and positioned myself on the edge of the bed — still nothing out of the ordinary. But something was strange. Reality itself seemed to belong to an old movie — faded, a bit grainy, and I think I even saw the "blip" of a badly spliced jump-cut amid it all.

My immediate reaction, being a Type 2 Diabetic, was that I was somehow having a diabetic reaction to something. But it was a kind of reaction I'd certainly never heard of before. I decided that I needed to check my blood glucose anyway… and proceeded to rise.

My right side worked, but my left side did not!

A shocking lurch and near-fall! I felt like I was dragging a limp body along with me, but the limp body was half of my own. I grabbed the doorframe, and just barely prevented a plunge head-first to the floor. That would have been painful. I could not make my left leg respond, but managed to swing it in a jerking, random fashion to where it propped me up, like a kickstand on a bicycle, and allowed me to grab the bathroom counter beyond the doorway.

Had my left side fallen asleep? Had I laid on it wrong? What had happened during my nap?

I'm not sure I remember how, but I managed to get to my glucometer and testing supplies, prick my finger and check my glucose level. The reading that glared back at me was… 515. Gulp. I didn't know my little glucometer could display such a high reading. Well… that somehow was the first medical clue that something was wrong.

All I'd done that day was sip coffee, and had made myself a bologna sandwich — with mustard — for a midmorning meal. I'd had no breakfast or lunch; it wasn't like I'd devoured an entire carrot cake with creme frosting and washed it down with a half-gallon of Heineken — to get such a horrendous glucose level!

My continued clown-car stagger got me to my computer chair, to sit and think. What I did next was to get online and look up these terrible symptoms. I sloppily got onto the Internet — only my right hand could type — and went onto WebMD, or was it some other medical site? I typed, as best I could, a description of what was happening, into the search engine.

My current symptoms all fell into the same category online: Half the signs of a stroke. A stroke? But… I'd read of strokes, and knew they were usually accompanied by headache, slurred speech or a complete inability to speak, utter confusion… I had none of that, so far.

But I definitely had the unresponsive body, all on one side, which definitely spelled out a stroke. I fought my way back to the bedroom, for my phone, and a 9-1-1 call.

If I fell along the way, I don't remember it. It was a Fight Or Flight moment, and I couldn't exactly fly.

I got the phone open, and dialed the numbers.

"9-1-1, what's the address of your emergency?"

I told her the address; my speech had not been slurred, nor was there any cloud of confusion; in fact, I felt a sudden rush of clarity.

"What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I think… I just had a stroke."

In the five minutes or less that it took the paramedics to arrive, I'd somehow made it to my front door — finally — to let them in. Getting me aboard the ambulance, I informed them of my enormous glucose reading, and they immediately retook a glucometer test. In just that short a time, my glucose had dropped back down… to 202. When we arrived at the hospital, it was tested again… and now had dropped to 166. From 515 down to 166, in about fifteen minutes!

The immediate "crisis event" had seemingly passed. Now the long journey had begun back to mental stability, awareness, and physical ability. I was in the ER for about three hours as they questioned, retested, and treated me. Even the overhead sound system had blared "ER, Stroke Alert incoming… ER, Stroke Alert incoming…" I was the 'incoming' like an aerial attack! By and by, they had procured a regular bed for me elsewhere on another floor, and secured me to it. I was not even allowed off the bed, with an alarm attached in case I attempted to get up, much less rise to go to the bathroom… without someone knowing I had, and there watching.

For the following four days I was administered blood thinners, my veins flushed with saline, needle poked, my movements monitored, and was asked and repeat-asked simple — almost silly-level but important — questions, to monitor my cognitive status… I felt like a lab rat.

"Do you know where you are?" "Why were you brought here?" "What's your name?" "Tell me your birthday." "How many fingers am I holding up?" "Let's see you touch your nose… now touch my finger… now the same only with your left hand… Now with your eyes closed..." "Point to me. Now point to the nurse. Now the same with your left…" "Raise your eyebrows… look to your left… now look to your right… now stick out your tongue… now smile… now frown…"

I seemed to pass all the overly simple requests, and the emotion auditions. But it wasn't a perfect performance. My left eye now had an ever-so-slight droop. Both my left hand and left leg showed a "drift" when I was asked to hold them out and keep them there for a five-count. My left hand wanted to "drift" away, and my left leg wanted to drop first, before my right.

When asked to touch my knee with my opposing foot's heel, and trace a line down my shin to the other foot, my right foot could do it… but my left leg wanted to merely cross my right leg, not trace a line down anything.

My coordination was either lacking altogether or severely overcompensating. When reaching for my water cup with my left hand, it could not finesse an easy grab… my attempt to move my arm was a wild over-shot that threatened to knock the cup to the floor. Eventually I could roughly modulate my arm's effort, and with concentration, make it stop just before impact, and shakily negotiate my fingers around the cup… then actually take a sip from it. It was all a mentally exhausting work assignment.

This stuff was toddler-simple. Why was it beating me?

It was extremely helpful that my concentration and reasoning capability was intact, and I could readily communicate with my nurse and instructor. I imagined those stroke victims who lose even that, and it was terrifying.

THE HOSPITAL ENNUI

My life was put on pause. My job was immediately on hold — my company follows the law, and complies with the state rules that forbid firing for medical emergencies… but had no real sick-leave plan. Meaning, when my working stopped, so eventually would my pay. There were still rent and utilities at home to worry over.

I'd need — at least a minor — miracle.

Getting any decent sleep in a hospital, especially under such dire circumstances when watchful monitoring is called for, is nigh impossible. As soon as the last nurse leaves, with a comment like "Now get some rest," the next nurse enters with a new reason to poke a needle into something. Or with that same series of silly-but-important questions.

The hospital's day begins before any reasonable person's, at roughly 4:30 a.m. The alarm clock is yet a new nurse coming on duty, and she must be formally introduced, and her/his name written on a room marker board. Then, a new set of vitals is taken. Perhaps a new blood test, which of course brings another needle into play. "Make a fist," in the case of a post-stroke patient may be a slightly tall order.

Breakfast is still about three hours away, and they have plans to keep one wide awake.

Breakfast, it becomes apparent, may or may not be worth waiting for. Are those eggs or mashed potatoes? And why don't they at least taste like one or the other? Whichever, they become better than hunger pains all morning until lunch — which may as likely be just as unrecognizable, but sustenance nonetheless. Maybe hospital food is like sausage; if you find any enjoyment in it, it's best not to watch it being made.

Maybe 'enjoyment' is an inaccurate term, but 'solace.' One becomes grateful to have it, regardless.

The day floats lazily on, or perhaps drones. The bed becomes uncomfortable, and difficult to lie still in. Getting up is forbidden without buzzing for the Nurse Station to send someone to monitor one's action. First, they have to switch off the "bed alarm." I set it off once, accidentally, and it's loud and annoying.

The saline they I.V. into one to keep one hydrated works its magic all day and night, and the urinal bottle gets a wet workout. That's how I triggered that pesky alarm. After lunch one day (thankfully 'after') I dropped the near-full receptacle — I leaned to grab it before it splashed to the floor. With my faulty coordination, I of course missed. BED ALARM! PEE ALL OVER FLOOR! At once!

TMI: At that point in my stay, my urine had become water-clear, and was basically little more than warm water from my bladder, rather than a gross yellow-orange tsunami for the clean-up crew to deal with. Fortunately.

The nurses took it in stride. They proceeded to let the room cleanup cue a need for a ME cleanup. That Monday evening, I'd planned to have a shower. But instead, I'd had a stroke. Had been brought to the hospital. I hadn't bathed in days, and had lain in my own funk through an urgent, nerve-racking medical ordeal.

I could not yet stand in a shower, like I'd planned at home. "We're gonna sponge you," sounded both like a plan of action and a warning to prepare emotionally for trouble.

The lights were turned all the way up. Into my hospital room were brought sponges and a pair of buckets, by two nurses (about my age). Were they about to wash my car? One bucket had sudsy soapy water, the other was for a rinsing. "Get his gown off." They didn't stop with my gown — I still had on my socks and underwear from the first night I'd arrived. Off they were pulled as well!

Now I'm laying in a brightly lit room, stark-raving nekkid, with two women on either side, working sponges full of soapy wash. This was more "action" all at once than I'd had in years. In brief, they proceeded with a full cavity search! Every hiding place my body had, and a few I never thought of, were dug into and cleansed with a dose of cold, wet shock therapy. Yeah, they rolled me on my side, and while one nurse held me securely in place, the other went right to the "butt stuff."

"OOOOOOOWOW thank you Nurse!" That washrag had to have been kept in the freezer. She scrubbed every inch I possessed; my other rosey cheeks and between them.

Having found nothing in my "safe," then it was on to the family jewels displayed openly. My chest, armpits, neck and all the rest was processed quickly, but special attention was taken to clean my valuables!

She had THAT in hand… and inspected THOSE individually, going over them with the rag. The other nurse attempted to distract me with a little clinical conversation. My own one-liners interrupted occasionally. Finally it was "Careful with those, I've only got two!"

What I got back was "We're nurses; you got nothing we ain't seen every day!"

"Well if this is a honeymoon, the stroke was nothing!"

That got a laugh. Humor can be the great equalizer, and it seemed to make her hands gentler.

What downtime there was, was not as restful as one might imagine. The TV system available to patients offers everything from informational videos about the hospital and the various entities around the community that support it, a selection of mood-altering ambiance channels (waterfalls, fireplaces, rainstorms, walks in the country, etc.) and the usual assortment of regular TV channels and a movie channel that offers both old and recent theatrical releases. The quiet between midnight and the next wake-up call at 4 a.m. is punctuated by the screams of other, delusional, hallucinating patients somewhere else on the floor, and the constant search for the TV remote, which is also the buzzer for the Nurse's Station, as it tumbles off the mattress to the ground, or into the mechanisms of the bed itself.

They haven't really yet mastered the concept of an unlosable control box in a hospital bed, despite leaps and bounds in monitoring technology.

The last time I was hospitalized, I saw The Force Awakens for the first time — no ticket price, just a lengthy hospital stay. Saw it. No time to rewatch. This go-around, I saw Godzilla Vs. Kong… and now I'm glad I didn't buy a ticket. For the record, I still prefer the old monster-suitfest King Kong Vs. Godzilla from Toho Studios.

Eventually the days become predictable, and can be felt winding down at about sundown. The needle pokes become less frequent, and nurses file through just to introduce me to the next nurse taking over the current one's shift.

"Let me know if you need anything" translates down to "Stop dropping the call-box down the crevices into the bed mechanism."

In all the hospital stays I've had, I've never had any repeat nurses. No "remember me?" moments. Except one, and maybe I should count my blessings.

Big, blond, tubby and didn't look like he'd ever missed a meal in his life, the male nurse I recall as 'Thomas' I also recall thinking was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Merely trying to switch out an I.V., he had blood spatter all over me and my bedding. He worked rolls of tape by picking at them with a ballpoint pen. He pressed inadequately small cotton balls into my bloody gushers of I.V. wounds, and generally wasn't bashful with those snide remarks that made it seem like everything happening was my fault.

Are there still medieval types like this in the medical profession? Apparently so.

His parting remark to me I remember vividly: "Good thing I don't have diabetes and die young."

I spoke to the Head Nurse about him… and got him again a week later. His only reference to the previous shitshow he'd orchestrated was the quip: "Okay I admit I suck at this."

My quip back: "Can I have someone who doesn't?"

I somehow survived being 'treated' by Thomas, and so far had never encountered him a third time. Thank God.

I have been subject to 'polite rudeness' and 'cordial evil' in hospitals before. Like the time a few years ago when the Head Doctor on the floor came in to ask how I was doing, and inform me "We need the bed." And the E.R. nurse who once glared and actually said "So… we see your problem… what do you expect us to do about it?" That was the time my foot had swollen to twice its size, and the treatment wound up being an incision and drainage procedure including the amputation of a toe… after an afternoon convincing anyone who'd listen that I was… actually sick.

The "medical system" sometimes has deserved the 'medieval' description I just bestowed upon good ol' Thomas. It's not the advancement of the technology, but the 16th Century Egos of the staff involved. They're overworked… perhaps undercompensated… and have to deal with The Gross… I get it.

But now came the truest wake up call. The doctor on duty, dropped by to state "We've done all we can for you, the rest is up to your therapist, whomever that is."

"What do you mean by 'whomever'?"

He handed me a list of phone numbers. He added "now you're just laying around," and left the room.

It was Thanksgiving Eve.

The hint was thusly given, and it was no surprise when the following day… for lunch they served Turkey and Dressing… and then announced that I was being discharged. That night. Thanksgiving night. Yes, when all rides home are not available because everyone was on holiday. They discharged me knowing full well I may have to stay the night, with my insurance no longer picking up the tab (because I was discharged) and that I would be billed directly.

Well that just wouldn't work out well. And they put me in that situation intentionally. To either get me to leave, or bill me up the patoot for. I found myself arguing the Social Services Manager in circles over the phone. She was ticked because I was inconveniencing her Thanksgiving. She thought HER Thanksgiving was ruined… really.

They could take me home via ambulance… for $1,400. My house is about 3 blocks from the hospital.

Finally, since I was apparently free to do so, I got dressed. I told them, I was going to take my walker (my insurance had provided it after a previous phone battle to get them to bring it TO THE HOSPITAL where I actually was, instead of leaving it sitting on my front steps 3 blocks away) and I was going to WALK HOME. In the dark. Thanksgiving night. Happy Thanksgiving, Rob!

"We can't have you do THAT! You'd be an insurance liability!"

"You already saw my insurance to the exit door, by discharging me."

"Does walking home sound very smart to you?"

"Does discharging me intentionally on a holiday when all the transport services were off, sound any smarter?"

"Can't you call an Über?"

"So... I'm on my own, getting home? And by the way, no, I don't have the type of current phone necessary for an Über app… if any Übers are running tonight… because it is a holiday off…"

"Stop being difficult!"

"I didn't put myself in this situation, I'm just trying to deal with it. As long as you come off smelling like a rose… but remember, roses are fertilized with horseshit."

"I don't appreciate that."

"Guess what I'm failing to appreciate…"

"I'll call Über for you, and call you right back." And no following call ever arrived. She'd 'handled' my problem, and was done with it, for all anyone knew.

Again, I began a vigil… in 30 minutes I'd walk, or perhaps hobble, home. And just hope I'd be unaccosted in the dark, or hit by traffic crossing streets at my slower-then-a-drunk-slug mode, so soon after a stroke.

I still had I.V. tubes hanging from both arms. Upon being discharged, they had unhooked me, but the I.V.s were still present. I begged my nurse, when he happened in, to remove them so I could begin the long 3-block trek home… on foot if I had to.

"I gotta get signatures."

Cue massive eye-roll. "Could you do what's necessary, and get these OUT… please. They're not connected to anything."

He left. Another nurse entered… and began trying to get my I.V. tubes reconnected to the machine!!

"I'm discharged! I need them OUT, not hooked back in!" That nurse left in a huff.

Finally my main nurse returned with a stack of papers requiring signatures. And initials. And drawn maps to the lost pirate treasure, and all else. He left them with me, to sign, with the I.V.s still riding my arms with vampiric needles stuck into place, and octopus sprawls of plastic tubes hanging!

Just as I began working the pen, avoiding the tubes to make it touch the papers… he returned. "The ambulance to take you home is here… and the hospital is absorbing the cost."

"Better not keep them waiting, huh. So let's get these G.D. I.V.s OUT already... shall we."

"Sign those."

"Going as fast as my limp arms full of tubes will let me… promise."

About 15 signatures later… he got one arm free of I.V. tubage. One down, one to go. Another stack required signing beforehand, though. Another round of signatures later, he was willing to free my remaining arm of useless I.V. plastic and needles.

"Is the ambulance even still here waiting for me?"

"I'll check," and he was again off, to go make another 20-minute phone call. This was, in a word, maddening. Was I being charged to sit on this hospital bed, in this room, and wait on every slow-poked bureaucratic formality to play out? My insurance was signed off, as soon as I'd been discharged… now hours ago. I decided to get brazen.

I got up, walker and all, and stood in the door of the hospital room, as if I was 'hanging out.'

My nurse yelled at me, from down the hall… I thought the intercom was working, but I guess not for this. "They're coming up to get you!" Finally… something resembling action.

If I'd known I'd be such trouble, I'd never bothered having the stroke!

The young and alert 20-somethings who'd brought the ambulance for me were not jaded; they'd not been alive long enough to become so. They had me lay on a gurney, assured me they'd not forget my walker, or the bag containing the rest of my belongings, and merrily wheeled me downstairs — smiling, joking, telling me how much trouble I wasn't. I was actually something for them to do on such a slow night. I told them I was glad to help, and thankful for theirs.

A relieved sigh escaped as my nostrils met the cool night air outside. The ride home took all of five minutes. And just like that, I was at my own front door. On a dark stoop, with a walker, but on the other side of the door, was home, waiting as I'd left it, those four nights previous. My valiant young saviors helped me inside, and made sure I was secure… and waved so long.

I was in my own messy kitchen again… unwashed dishes still waited patiently, and had not started to stink yet. My bed, still unmade, invited me back into its rumpled folds. No tumbling call-boxes to smack the floor. My lamp welcomed my return. As did my TV, and my chair.

No one else seemed to mind where I'd ended up — amid my quiet little nook on the planet. All that was left was the unpredictable week ahead, with all its twists and turns and frustrations that I'd encounter soon enough. Right now… a can of soda beckoned, and after I stood at my own toilet relieving my equally exhausted bladder, without the monitoring eyes of a stranger looming, I plopped my tired ass in a livingroom chair, switched on the TV, and heard all about what the rest of the world was suffering through.

The next morning, I'd have to actually drive my own car to the pharmacy where all my new scary prescribed meds waited.

But after a stroke… not everything is quite as scary.