A Few (Hopefully Not) Final Thoughts

In 11 days, 13 hours and 42 minutes from the moment that I write these words, I am scheduled to undergo an 8-hour operation to repair my heart. During that time my heart will stop beating, my lungs will stop breathing and my life will hinge on the functioning of sophisticated machinery and the talent of fallible humans. In a very real sense, my survival will be likely but within some meaningful measure of doubt for the full-span of an average work day.

This is my last post, my last considered public statement, before the procedure, and honestly I don’t know what I want to say. I only know that I want to say _something_ to go out with a meaningful thought, something with weight and girth and heft to it as a substantive idea.

I realize that’s my ego taking over, and that what I want to use this internet space for today is probably far removed from what you have any interest in reading. The problem is that impending surgery doesn’t actually make an individual any more deep, insightful or remotely worth listening to than they were when they weren’t scheduled to be opened up like a strip-mall Starbucks. So, I respect the choice you make to not follow down this twisting road of thought with me to what will most likely be a disappointing conclusion, and ultimately meaningless resolution when I likely emerge happy and healthy in the fall.

For the rest of you, let’s just see where this goes. What I want to say is this...

I’m really f*cking scared.

I had a dream not so long ago in which I was wheeled into surgery. This was one of those really disturbing dreams where my brain didn’t clue me in to the fact that I was dreaming. There were no fish floating past the doctor’s head. The nurse wasn’t my eighth grade Phys. Ed. teacher. The surgical lights didn’t shine on a disco ball. It was just very believable.

As the dream wandered toward its end, the anesthetist finally leaned over me and put a mask over my face. I breathed once more and then everything went black. And stayed there, and I remember clearly wondering whether I was going to wake up at all. Ever. When I did wake up, for real, I just laid there and absorbed that feeling. I wasn’t really frightened--that would come later and slowly like the changing of a season--I was just synthesizing this dark feeling of true mortality and the lingering sense of what my own death might feel like. After a while—not that long actually—I drifted back off to sleep and did not dream again.

It stayed with me, though, and out of nowhere that feeling of just ending will pop into my head, because that moment where the mask goes on or the meds get juiced into the IV or whatever it is that anesthesiologists actually do to make you not feel the knife in the chest and the saws on bone, that moment is coming hard and fast. There will be a final breath and hope will hinge on the idea that my whole system will reboot with the hardware upgrade, and my most vital organs will start their second life on the other side.

Any surgery is scary, but I feel like it would be easier to embrace the idea of some kind of spleen removal or appendectomy because the whole time those trusty lungs and heart would be rocking their groove. I’ve had these things kicking around in my chest, keeping me alive every single second basically since Haldeman and Erlichman fell on their sword for poor doomed Nixon. A week from Monday, my heart will not beat.

Mind: blown.

Every time I think of it, everything else seems achingly small by comparison, and the fear—I mean gen-u-ine terror—drops a proto-star into my lower intestines. Have you ever been almost dizzy from fear? Because I have been, a half dozen times this week already. I don’t think I’ve shown it to anyone—odd that my confidant on the matter is a host of a few thousand—and I’ve gone about the busy duty of fixing dinner, managing the creation of articles and playing 13 hours of Assassin’s Creed II as though this were the most ordinary kind of thing.

Because, they tell me it is. Ordinary, that is. They tell me that this is almost routine. They tell me that I should plan for a recovery and then get back to my ordinary life. They tell me not to worry. I could sooner give birth to a litter of pug puppies.

Meanwhile I have to dance around genuine preparations for the possibility that I’ll be dead by a week from Tuesday.

… and I can’t write the rest of that paragraph. That sentence up there feels too much like gunning the car, Thelma-and-Louise-style, toward an apocalyptic mental cliff. I do the things I have to do in disguise. "Might as well brush up the old will," I say, as though I’d just casually thought of it alongside the need to clean the garage and change the oil. Better just make a note of all the bills that have to be paid, you know just in case next month I forget that AT&T is going to want their monthly C-note.

It’s self-deception and avoidance of the first degree, and I just hope I can keep it up right into my 5:00 am ride to the hospital. Let me just get close before I let my emotional seaside cliff go crashing into the deep. Let me get in the same building with people who are legally obliged and permitted to give me some primo-choice narcotics.

Let me go into that sleep of my nightmares well and truly altered. What comes Monday night or Tuesday or in August, the slow pain and crushing exhaustion of recovery will be for some other tomorrow to deal with. I can’t spare thoughts that far ahead yet.

Here’s the thing. All of those paragraphs up there. I think now that I needed all that to preface this next thought, because none of that is what I really want to say. I say all that so that you know this next thing is all the way, full-on considered.

After it all, thirty-eight years as a boy, a man, a father, a husband, a nerd, a jock, a peon, a boss, an irresponsible failure, a proud success, a writer, a hack, a fraud, a liar, an honest man. In the wake of it all, looking back, I find that I regret nothing. There was nothing I could have done to stop my heart from degrading or to stop my aorta from bulging, and all the other things I did led me to this place and this life that I genuinely don’t want to give up. Not by a long shot.

I’ve been ridiculously lucky time and again. I’ve lived in a world where “it’s all going to work out, somehow” was always (always!) true. I never failed to find my way to the things that I need, and usually along the way managed to find a path to the things I wanted too. It’s not a complex or big-ticket life, but it’s mine and there’s nothing on the grand scale that I would have changed, because that path leads to this place and this place is mine.

So that’s it, I guess. I assume I’ll be back to talking about iPads and gaming with a broken sternum in a few months. If you’re putting down money, odds are pretty good that this post will just be a whole bunch of maudlin theater in a few weeks. But this, this empty page waiting for words, is where I can say things I can’t say out loud.

Thank you.


Oh, and get well quick, we need a bearded man we can trust to do all the accounting concerning the next donation drive.

So... get to it, will'ya?

On the plus side, you get weeks to think about this. I wasn't even informed of how dicey my post-crash emergency surgery was until a week after the operation had been successful! My personal ruminations on mortality have, for that reason, taken on a different hue—and have themselves been somewhat colored by prescription medication.

I have every confidence that your operation will be every bit as pedestrian as the surgeons have led you to believe. Still, our thoughts and prayers will be with you in the Sands family.

Best of luck to you.

Good luck with your operation and recovery, Sean.

As the Ambien I've been prescribed begins to take effect, and I'm under 12 hours to surgery, I want to say briefly and sincerely that this thread and the messages people have sent my way have been genuinely helpful. I've honestly never felt anything like I'm feeling at this moment, but knowing there is an army of good people at my back gives me strength that I wasn't honestly sure I had. Thank you, because all of you have truly individually and as a group made a huge difference in my life. Even if wishes and prayers can't change whatever outcome awaits me, you should all know that it has given me great comfort to read your words.

For those who would like to follow my progress tomorrow, I believe Elysia will be creating a thread and I have also created a twitter account at @OpElyGWJ specifically for updates and information.

Until next time, I'm signing off. Thank you again.

You'll make it. We believe in you!

See ya soon, Elysium. I'll keep the Corona cold for ya, and perhaps drink a few in your honor while you're "AFK."

And don't forget...

Elysium wrote:

Until next time, I'm signing off. Thank you again.

And next time will be soon.

Make sure they sharpee the right organ. You wouldn't want to come out to discover that you went through the whole ordeal for a new spleen.

I've been silent up til this point, but my thoughts will be with you guys tomorrow.

Elysium wrote:

I believe Elysia will be creating a thread.

Over here folks...

I don't know how I missed this, but although late to the thread, my deepest and most hopeful thoughts go to you and your family. I hope to hear the whole story from you later this week.

For those following this thread, Elysia posted earlier that the surgery went smoothly, and she got to spend a few minutes with Elysium, post-op. He seemed in good spirits, and the internet breathed a sigh of relief. Certis had a few touching things to say on Twitter, too.

I'm reading this after the fact and all I can say is wow. You're a brave son of a gun. The courage and strength your family has probably shown to help you get through this... it's hard to express with mere words. It's hard enough to stare down your own mortality, but the millions of thoughts that probably cannonball through your mind leading up to such a pivotal family moment, it's painful to wrap my head around it and I don't even know you personally. Having been through some pretty life-changing stuff myself over the past 7-8 months, the only word that keeps coming back again and again is gratitude. Wishing you a speedy and safe recovery.