12,682. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,009

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,009

(misery)

In 1958, when I got hit by that

train, it was like one life ended

and something else began. I sort

of got a re-start, a second revving.

It took time time. Coma-land

was pretty weird. A lot of big

space, places and rooms, with

colored flowers and strange

sounds. All my realizations 
were changed and worked over;
 some strange spirit lights and 
glimmering  places held me in 
thrall. I really didn't want to let go
and just come back...to...here?
It took a long time, I re-entered in
partial segments, the lights would
get strong, and then I'd retreat, and
pull back, fighting a spirit guide
all the way. I almost really did
NOT want to be returning. I
finally did make the passage, and
it was very bright too, filtering back 
into this 'reality.' Way more than 

just waking up, it was an entire
raft and level of being I no longer
 really wanted. I think some of

me was reluctant to re-enter,

and maybe that's the pull I

was feeling. It was a cold

and snowy February then,
when I can recall the impact,

and when I awoke it was

warm, hot, sunny outside, or 
at least outside the window at
my hospital bed. People would 
talk to me about things, in a
strange, slow, and logical way. 
Slow too, like maybe they 
thought I was retarded now or
maimed for life, in the head.
(That's another story I'll get
into in  a bit). I no longer 
wanted that, but they went on, 
telling me it was hot out, how  
they'd been enjoying  things on

the outside, the sun was nice, etc.

I was up pretty high, I guess it

was 5 or 6 floors up. But all I
could see through the window
glass was sky. During the

period of being out all that

time, comatose, I never found

out, not even later, what had

gone on. Did I still poop and pee?

Did my body move about? Did I 
make noises? How did I eat, or get

nutrients? I couldn't eat normally

for the longest time, as my jaws

were wired shut. They used to

give me baby food and a big

kind of spoon, and I had to jam

the food, on the spoon, into my

wired-shut mouth and sort of

suck it in. All that mushy crap.

Man I hated that and I never

got my taste for eating back.

Eating is a real nuisance, even

now. I don't mind drinking stuff,

and I can be OK with chips and

all, but regular food just ain't for

me. I eat, of course, and don't

get me wrong. But not with any

relish. (That's kind of a food joke

too, I suppose).

-

Call me ignorant, but I often go

around saying 'Why can't they just

make some sort of food-wholesome

chip, where you can get all that

vegetable and nutrient stuff, and

whatever else you need, in a sort

of basic yet tasteful chip?' Not all

that salted up and stupid stuff, I

mean like real good food. Every

so often someone, including my

goodly wife, who prides herself

on cooking well, and does, will

tell me things like that exist, in

health-stores and such. But we

never end up checking it out. So

I still eat all her stuff : The usual,

greens, potatoes, fish, rice, and

all that. No meat. That's only

because I can't stand the betrayal

and the pain of what we do to

animals. Like my friend once

said about not eating chicken  -

'I don't eat nothing that has its

pecker on its face.'

-

So, right off the bat, I had all these

tubes and intraveneous drips going

on, into my body. I was all strung up,

and in casts, in a hospital bed, in

traction. Weird word, about all that,

when I first heard it. Traction? It

meant I couldn't move; my one leg

cast in white plaster and suspended

straight up and out, and under pressure.

Like getting stretched or something.

My mouth was wired up, for months.

I couldn't, and still can't, breath

through my nose. The air doesn't

travel. Same went for my arm.

All this smashed stuff was on my

right side. Where the train impacted

me. If traction was the word,  was

it because because everything was

'fractured? Why not just call it

fraction? This male nurse guy that

I had, he said it was because 'traction'

meant I was under pressure, things

being forced to remain straight,

to bond and heal as I mended. He

kept talking t me like I was 4. I ended

up really annoyed at the guy. He'd

come by every so often, to change

sheets and all that, and the jerk would

like push me up, off the bedding, so

he could pull the sheets out and slide

new ones in. It hurt! He was the one

who told me I had to be straight and

under tension (traction), and he's the

one now treating me like a nursey toy.

Foolish. Why was a man a nurse
anyway? I wondered that.

-

Everything took so long. Bones to mend,

and then finally they began dismantling

all that traction stuff, and I got re-cast

some, and they loosened me up and I got

a wheel-chair of my own! I was mending

pretty decently, I guess, except for the

Gerber's bullshit creamed peas stuff.

(The jaw wires were still on me when

I finally did leave.) I wasn't much for

talking after that either. I also sort of

got wheel-chair rights to just stroll

around the place. It was a huge ward

room, (Perth Amboy General Hospital

then), and there were maybe 30 beds

and cases. Mostly kids, a little older

than me. It's funny now how I can't

remember any of that; if it was males

only. I guess it was. I don't remember

any pajama clad female wrecks around.

The place was a crowded mess. There

were beds in the hallway too, with

people on them. A few even in the

same traction situation I was in. It

got to be cartoon like, all that. I'd

see cartoons with accident guys in

them, portraying after a car-accident

or a big fight or something, even

Bugs Bunny and those guys; they'd

end up looking just like me  -  traction

and casts on arms and legs, and all

that bandage junk too. Funny stuff.

I used to wonder if having a cartoon

anvil land on your cartoon head

felt anything like being broadsided

by a locomotive.

-

That was pretty much third grade

for me. Did me in good for that

year. When I got the braces off

my locked-shut jaw, the guy said

I should 'chew gum, chew lots

of gum.' I think my dentist, Dr.

Chrobat, must have sent him a

kickback. I got, after I was

pretty much back into the real

world, and no one figured any

longer I was going to die (young),

lots of visitors from the neighborhood

people; the parents and the adults

who knew my family. Everyone

was all awkward, or the ladies

would start boo-hooing when they

saw me. Fearsome stuff, like I

was back from the dead or

something. The one lady, from

right across the street, my friend

Jimmy's mother, she came often,

every few days, and the funny 

thing was, each time she brought

with her a homemade custard

pie. She figured I'd like it and

because the custard section was

mushy, I could eat it. I did, a little,

but I wound up hating it, just

sick of it, I guess. Even now, if

I think of it, it's not cool. Mostly

others ate it too, standing around.

The whole scene was gross  -  a

hospital ward, visitors, people

eating food and stuff that was

brought in. If instead of the darned

food, every person came in with

a dollar, I could have been sitting

pretty after 5 or 6 months. Food 

just never made the grade for me

after that. Pass me the chips.

-

When I sit around now, and think

about all this, I realize about how

such another world it all was. I'll

write more on it, because I have

a lot to say, but what amazes me is

that, in 1958, it was only 20 years

from 1938, say. 20 years forward

was still only 1978. This was all 

like 60 years ago. That's a long time.

In all my traction and all my re-entry,

I was a heck of a lot closer to the

1930's than I was to now.