My Missouri odyssey was short on ecstasy. Still, it was a trip I’ll never forget although the memory itself may transform into some old-age looping adventure. Should that happen, surely the story will only get better! But for now…
Plans were set for departure from Denver on Sunday morning, December 22. It was to be an early shove off in my friend’s SUV. There had been lots of conjecture over travel conditions. With dire warnings, TV augurers predicted mega-storms. The navigator wanted to go anyway; I was game.
When Tony arrived to pick me up a half hour early, I wondered just how fast he would drive across I-70. He was hoping to get to Missouri in time for a niece’s birthday party. I thought his idea hopeless; there were just too many miles to drive even in good weather. Since there was a storm in eastern Kansas and across all of Missouri, we’d probably drive right into it. We set out in the dark before five o’clock.
In my original plan I had envisioned spending time in Missouri in late spring when there was no threat of snow and ice. Since I wanted a leisurely trip that allowed time for writing and sketching, I faced the wintry departure with a sense of loss and some feelings of foreboding that had nothing to do with the weather. A vision had flitted through my mind that grandpa (me, that is) had become a patient in a Missouri hospital. What a bummer of a Christmas that would provide for both the children and me.
I’m sure my foreboding arose from my intention to initiate a relationship with my new doctor; one I assumed would quickly focus on the shabby condition of my prostate gland and likely lead to some kind of surgery. I wasn’t even sure I should go, but my daughter from Veracruz, Mexico was already in Missouri. I needed to see her and her children. In a proper Christmas spirit I set aside thoughts and visions and started packing presents, sweaters, long johns, and of course, books to read.
Going on a trip requires preparations for going and for being away. So at the same time I was preparing presents for grandkids, I was also closing a fifteen-year massage practice, getting rid of many, many things, bringing to the house boxes of artwork, CDs, towels, sheets, and the like, knowing I needed to organize the mess in such a way that its presence would not drive my sometimes over-focused partner nuts during the week of my absence. Other preparations included finishing up January postings for a storytelling blog I monitor and baking Christmas cookies with my friend Dianne. The weeks before the trip were especially emotional for me with important endings (as in saying goodbye to my clients), beginnings (as in meeting folk and learning responsibilities related to the co-op art gallery I had just joined), and continuities (as in selecting just-right stories for the blog and observing changes in details of my own health—both physical and emotional). I approached the Sunday morning departure worn out and on edge.
Tony and I clipped across the plains at 75 mph. We found snow for a few miles, but mostly the roads were clear. I transferred from car to bus at Kansas City and finally got into Mid-MO in great pain. Somewhere along the way my prostate gland went on strike. Early the next morning I ended up in the emergency room in the county hospital in Booneville where I received the wonderful treatment of a nurse installing a urinary catheter. I said to the nurse as he worked, “I can’t really say that feels good, but I’m really looking forward to the relief I will get.”
Laughingly he replied, “Yeah, and it should bring your blood pressure down too.”
“Merry Christmas to us all,” I said smiling as the pressure on my abdomen abated, the pain in my lower back disappeared, and my sense of calm was restored.
One unexpected result of becoming a patient was that I spent more time at the farm near Boonville than I had anticipated. There my son’s family home with its great porch, sunny rooms, and radiating wood stoves warmed me as did the love its residents expressed towards me. All these things helped me cope with the limitations. The attention of grandkids and their friends, the noisy environment with constant laughter, even the purrs of cats and licks of dogs helped me heal. My ex-wife and our daughter and her family came out on Christmas Eve and stayed over. We played cards, made music, talked every topic under the sun (that refused the shine), and ate a wonderful assortment of cookies, cakes, meats, salads, and soups, all washed down with great-tasting coffees and teas and for me glass after glass of water.
We celebrated the holiday well although the weather was cold. Ice took three days to melt off trees and grasses. Lots of wood was burned to keep us warm. Of course that meant many hours of splitting logs and the like. I caught up on my grandkids’ lives in school and work and performances. Of course, the adults had even more projects underway—one beginning an FM radio station, another going to college, another teaching writing, another designing costumes for dramas, and so on.
The next few days in Jefferson City with my ex-wife, our daughter, and her kids, gave me an even clearer view of their lives. Of course, we played cards and otherwise entertained one another. With one grandson I had a Japanese meal at a Korean-owned restaurant named I Love Sushi while we listened to and watched K-Pop videos. That seemed grandly intercultural. Finally I had to say goodbye. Myrna and Desma drove me to Kansas City to meet Tony. We crossed the plains all in a hurry and got into Denver late at night.
The next morning I went to see my doctor. He had a nurse remove the catheter—an act of relief that lasted for a very few hours. Around midnight on New Years Eve I got to know more nice medical people went at another emergency room where I got a new gizmo. What a celebration!
I’ve been having many thoughts related to the conditions of bladder, prostate, and kidneys, the treatments I’ve received, the decisions of others, the reactions of even others that mightily irked me, and the many sympathetically helpful responses I have received. I also have come to a greater understanding of myself, my needs in illness, my setting aside many personal needs to make things better for others. These are mostly old themes revisited in a new way. What I find most important is the level of frailty I experienced, the slowness of my movements, the difficulty to get simple things accomplished, and the general frustration at limitation.
The present truth of my Missouri odyssey surely lies in the stark contrast of personal frailty with familial perseverance. I am wiser about myself. I am much more appreciative of my family’s loving support. I find those themes enough.
So in 2014 my internal editor says:
“Odyssey on, Mr. Hoyle,
but the next time you tell this story,
make it more interesting.”
