Letter From Milo: Into The Mystic (With Apologies To Van Morrison)

The morning of my heart surgery I was pacing around my room at the Hines V.A. Hospital, waiting for the action to get started.

In a little more than an hour a crack team of surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists, carpenters, pipefitters, sleight-of-hand experts and candy stripers were going to crack me open like a lobster. They were going to take out my heart, replace a valve and fix an aneurism, all the while keeping me alive by means of a mechanical heart rented that morning from the local Ace Hardware.

Well, I’d have to see it to believe it.

I wasn’t nervous, you understand. Shit like this happens to me all the time. One minute I’m walking down the street, minding my own business, and BAM!, the next minute I’m knee-deep in a situation that Rod Sterling would find hard to believe.

Anyway, as I’m pacing around my room trying to figure out a way to sneak out for a smoke, I happen to glance out of the window and see my doctor pull into the parking lot. As I watch him get out of his car, a late model Trans Am, I see him toss away a beer can, then stop to smoke a joint with the parking lot guys.

A few minutes later he’s in my room. “How’s it going, dude?” he asks.

“Pretty good. How about you?”

“Me? I feel fine. Matter of fact, I feel extra fine. Let’s get this thing started. I’m kind of in a hurry. I’ve got a horse running in the 8th race at Arlington and don’t want to miss it.”

“Sure, no problem.”

The next 20 minutes pass in a flurry of activity. They give me drugs to relax me. They stick catheters and IVs in every available vein and artery. A sweet young thing shaves my chest. The last thing I remember before fading into unconsciousness is the good doctor gleefully clapping his hands and saying, “It’s showtime!”

I wake up about eight hours later, surrounded by family and loved ones — at least that’s what they tell me. I could have been surrounded by zombies, man-eating snakes and the spawn of Satan and wouldn’t have known the difference.

I was too far gone, way deep into the mystic, hiding in the place where the badly wounded go to either recover or not recover, whatever the case may be.

It was another 24 hours before I came to realize where I was — the Intensive Care Unit — and what had happened to me. Once I came to my senses, I knew I was in for a waiting game. Yes, it would be an ordeal. There would be pain and discomfort. Then would be small steps forward and small steps back. But, unless something went terribly wrong, I would improve every day. And in six or seven days, if my doctors weren’t bullshitting me, I would go home, hopefully well on the way to recovery.

I figured I could stand anything for six or seven days. I was tough. I could handle the Spanish Inquisition for six or seven days. Besides, the V.A. hospital system was very generous with drugs, especially morphine and Vicodon. Not only would I be pretty much free of pain, I would also be pretty much free of my wits, good sense and sobriety, which suited me just fine.

In the meantime, I had plenty of visitors. The lovely Mrs. Milo came by every day, spending hours at my bedside. My children visited regularly. My mother and sister stopped by every other day. Even my good friend, Bruce Diksas, dropped in to check on me. I suspect he was worried about the five dollars I owed him and wanted to make sure I didn’t try something underhanded, like die, to avoid paying him back.

The doctors were right on the money. On the seventh day (hmmm, catchy phrase) I went home. And although I was gone (from the hospital) I was not forgotten. They sent me home with enough drugs to sedate the Grateful Dead. Plus, a nurse would stop by every other day for a couple of weeks, to check on my vital signs.

And that, in essence, is what happened. I’m sure I’m leaving a few things out. The doctors told me it might be a few months until my mind regained its usual keen edge. Apparently, heavy doses of anesthetics tend to scramble the circuits.

Besides, I had to get back in the saddle pretty quickly. Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this low-life, scabby crew, has been interviewing other bloggers to take my spot. Rumor has it that he’s just about ready to hire his brother-in-law, who’s in a work release program and needs a job.

It’s good to be back.

NOTE:

One of my favorite visitors at the hospital was Rabbi Norm Lewison, a chaplain at the Hines V.A. Hospital. He stopped by every other day and spent a few minutes chatting with me. The normal practice for someone with a Serbian background would have been to have a Eastern Orthodox priest, in this case a Greek Orthodox cleric, come to visit. But the Greek chaplain retired and opened a drive-thru gyros stand and confessional booth on the West Side, so, for some reason, they decided to send a rabbi.

Rabbi Lewison was a sweet man, friendly, open and full of good cheer. I looked forward to his visits. We had some nice conversations and every time he left he said he would pray for my full recovery. Let’s face it, if you’re in a tough spot it doesn’t hurt to have the God of Abraham, Moses, Solomon, Bob Dylan and Sammy Davis, Junior on your side. Thank you, Rabbi Lewison. May you live 100 years.