Chapter Twenty: Life with the Evangelists

I heard a lot about the bible while I was there. My aunt is the Christian conversion pusher of the family. Before she became totally dedicated to the Christian way she had a vision of the Angel Gabriel descending from the ceiling of her home. After that she started to wear a monks gettup complete with sandals and a white rope to close the hooded robe at the waist. God was interjected into every sentence she spoke, a really annoying development for my atheist father. That's when a decades long rift developed during which they hardly spoke. Visits to their house were frequent until then. Now I was living under her roof twenty years later.





I never did feel comfortable and at home during my stay. Part of the reason was because I was living the life of a veritable hermit for a couple of years. I had always been sort of a loner, my life alone and in my car solidified this personal characteristic of mine. But my Evangelist relatives were truly living in a very small world of their own theistic making. I had to be guarded in my conversation with them, constantly sensitive to their rather narrow points of view. This didn't come naturally to me, I have always enjoyed being conversationally provocative. I'd quote Ghandi, only to find out that he burns in hell for failing to convert to Christianity. Forget quoting Buddha; he was the son of the devil. As a matter of ridiculous self delusion, I found out that most everybody who walks the Earth is condemned to hell, along with their heathen ancestors. Factually based conjecture with those whose beliefs are based upon faith based delusions is impossible. They very well could be right, from the basis of the Evangelical ideal. It could be that there is only one way to look at God, and the only references to the words of God might only be found in the Bible. But then again, such narrowly focused, faith based assumptions have caused people to fly jet liners in to the sides of buildings under the crazed belief that such actions would be approved by God. We live in a world community. That is an inescapable reality. Beliefs that only certain blind men can see the unseeable and decree hell upon others who don't share their point of view can only lead to acts of pure evil. History will teach you that, if you strive for as much objectivity that you can manage with an open and loving heart. No wonder so many tribal Arabs hate us on the other side of the world. I'm sure they don't appreciate our armies of the west invading their lands and looting their resources; killing thousands of women and children and loved ones in the process, only to hear from our own fundamentalists that their beloved ancestors rot in hell for not praising Jesus. I think all this self righteous war mongering is enough to make the living Jesus cry or curse, one or the other or both.

It didn't take me too long to share these ideas with my relatives. Needless to say, my opinions didn't go over too well. It was like rustling leaves off a shaky tree; it wasn't hard at all to stir up an argument. Some people might think this stupidly rude of me to do, after all I was under their roof and at their mercy. But I wasn't going to lie to them or put on some kind of disingenuous show of repent or spiritual rebirth. That would've been disrespectful of them as human beings. I wouldn't con them for the sake of room and food. I shared my feelings on religion and spirituality with them over the course of a few conversations, then turned off the conjecture spigot once it became obvious that cool headed objectivity wasn't there thing. It seemed that the most controversial idea I shared was the one about how I never think about heaven or hell. This seemed anathemic to life for those who live to die. I explained that I thought the key to humanities salvation is loving compassion. How could you ever be sure that your responding to others out of love when your actions are based upon a fear of hell or a lust for heaven? That really threw my aunt for a loop. She read her bible through the night contemplating that one, then came back the next day with "Fear hell, lust for heaven!" I didn't say anything more. That mode of thinking just isn't my thing, and I didn't want to shed any more rain on her parade path to heavens gate.

Chapter Nineteen: Off to the Evangelists

I had two weeks in the hotel before going to the home of my evangelical relatives. I started to practice using my crutches while keeping my weight off my broken hip. Taking a shower was a challenge. I learned how scarred of falling in the tub a crippled old person must feel when bathing. If I fell I'd probably be there a long time before anyone found me. I couldn't have gotten up without assistance. As my prescription pain killers started to run out I started to smoke pot, some stuff that a friend had dropped off to me, as a replacement. I had stopped smoking when I turned 40, but found the weed to be just as effective than the prescription meds. I'd use small doses of the cannabis throughout the rest of my recovery, mainly at night to help me get to sleep, limiting my consumption to very small quantities to make it last. The stuff has some muscle relaxing qualities that made it very useful. Two thumbs up as far as I'm concerned.
Finally it was time for the next stage of my recovery. My parents picked me up from the hotel and off to the evangelists I went. I hadn't really spent any time with them in about 20 years. I had always refered to my aunt and uncle as "nina" and "nino". I think it's a variation of the spanish word for godparents-"padrinos". They were living in a partially payed off, two bedroom house with two of there adult children and four of their grandkids. It's a crowded house. One grandchild is from my same as my age cousin, and the other three are from another of their children who has an apartment of her own but works too many hours a week to take care of them. At the time they also had their mid-twenties son staying with them along with his 30's something girlfriend. My "nino" is at his retirement age, but still works in construction to support a household where his adult children are inadequately supportive. They have a real tight family group, kind of anathemic from the environment in which I was raised. I felt like a mongrel dog passing through their property, a familiar feeling for me. Going out to their place I had no idea how long I'd stay. It didn't take me long to figure that one out.

There were warm greetings for me when I arrived. I was glad to have a place to go where I could work my way back to being able to use my reconstructed hip again. Their offer for shelter was indefinite, but I decided right off that I would leave as soon as I could. I'd be taking over the bed of my youngest cousin in a room that he shared with his older brother. He'd move into his grandparents room to sleep on the floor. I would've taken a floor spot but was far from able to pick myself up off the ground. I remember staring at the ceiling that night thinking to myself that my presence was only a disruption to their everyday existence. I felt bad about my five year old cousin having to sleep on the floor. I could tell his brother felt awkward with the whole arrangement. I decided that as soon as I was able I would take to the streets. I had survived an accident that would have proved fatal or disabling to most. I could survive continuing my recovery homeless and alone.

Next up: Life with the Evangelists

Chapter Eighteen: Hotel Interim

By the time I was released from the hospital I was barely able to get around on a walker. I was given some oral pain killers while I was being weaned off of the morphine. The docs had given me the option of being prescribed vicodin for the indefinite period of time that it would take for me to recover from my injuries, but I turned that one down. As soon as my current bottle of pain killers was consumed I'd just have to learn to live with the pain. My body felt broken, it definitely wasn't the same body I had before the accident. I thought of a mantra for my condition: "Pain is a companion constantly reminding me of how lucky I am to be alive.". I still use it to this day.



My best friend came up with some money to put me up in a hotel for a week and my parents matched him for another week. That would give me a chance for a little recovery time and a lot of reflection before heading to Ontario. I started to wonder why I survived the accident. I should have been killed. I got struck by a van and thrown into a truck. My head hit the asphalt so hard that it broke the bridge of my nose. Why was I alive?



While I was staying at the hotel I saw a documentary on cable called "Last Letters to Home.". The piece featured family members of fallen soldiers reading the last letters to home they received from their loved ones before they were killed in Iraq. It broke my heart. One mother read the last letter her daughter sent her. The letter talked about how she was surprised to find out that she would soon be coming home on leave. She wrote of how she couldn't wait to see her family and how she and her mom would spend a whole week together doing mom and daughter stuff: getting their nails done, shopping and so on. The letter arrived at her mothers house just about the same time the family found out that she had been killed. With tears in her eyes the mother recalled how she had gotten a hold of the military to see if she could have an open casket funeral-one last chance to say goodbye to her child face to face. The military informed her that her request would have to be denied. Her childs vehicle had struck a roadside bomb and her body was damaged beyond all recognition. There would be no opportunity for this mother to ever again gaze into her childs face. Her daughter was 19 years old. NINETEEN YEARS OLD!!! I started to cry so hard I got sick to my stomach. I wanted to turn the channel, but decided that out of respect for the soldiers and their family members that I'd continue to watch. I remember the parents of a bright young man with his whole future ahead of him struggling to get through his last letter. The father read the letter with a lost look in his eyes. He could barely start reading and had to pause three times before he was able to continue. The mother sat by his side with a profound look of anger on her face. Her sorrow had scared her. How could she ever get over her bitterness? I remember a widow reading her husbands last letter. He had joined the service to better provide for his young family. Now the only interaction his children would ever have with their father would be at his graveside. His wife recalled seeing the messengers of death, an officer and a chaplain, walk up to her screen door. They knocked on the screen, surely seeing her sitting in the living room. They knocked again. She said that she pretended not to see them. She knew why they were there. She hoped that she was experiencing some kind of horrible nightmare, and that she would awaken to a life with her husband alive and well. When she finally did answer the door and got the bad news she collapsed to the floor. I asked God "Why did you take them instead of me?". I would have gladly given my life to any one of those service members so that they could come back home alive and in one piece. It was the same kind of question I used to ask God over the death of my brother. It occurred to me that I had survived the accident with some kind of purpose to fulfill in life greater than my own mear existence. I knew that as soon as I was back on my feet that I would have to dedicate the rest of my life to finding that purpose.

Next up: Off to the Evangelists.

Chapter Seventeen: Where Do I Go from Here?

I spent almost a month in the hospital altogether. It was obvious that the recovery was going to be painfully slow. The first time the nurses tried to get me to stand, my blood pressure dropped to 80/60 and my heart rate raced to a 158 beats per minute. Somehow I didn't pass out. An extra unit of blood fixed the problem, and I started to learn how to use a walker without putting any pressure on my reconstructed hip. The first time I made my way to the bathroom unassisted felt like a major accomplishment. A big thrill came when I was able to walk a couple of friends of mine to the door of my hospital room at the end of their visit.

The hospital was concerned about my plans after my release. I had no where to go. I told the patient counselor that if I they wheelchaired me to the street I could find my way to the nearest shelter. That wasn't good enough for the counselor. If I had a rich mans insurance plan I would've gone directly to a rehab hospital; probably what my recovery status called for. But I wasn't a rich man and the guy who hit me apparently [according to an attorney] had no car insurance or money. My parents, who had been non-supportive of anything I ever did in my adult life, didn't want to take me into their condo even though they had a spare room. I've known parents of drug addicts fresh out of prison who would at least house their adult children to give them a chance at obtaining an acceptable way of life. Even though I was clean of mind and body and had no criminal record they informed me that coming to stay with them wouldn't be an option. Their decision didn't surprise me. It was a reflection of their parental modus operandi, each one of them privately confiding in me the others decision not to take me in.

Finally, my aunt living in Ontario [Southern California] agreed to house me to give me a chance at a reasonable initial recovery. My father had stopped talking to his sister over 20 years earlier when she and her family went wildly evangelical. He was an atheist and didn't appreciate their tendency to work the phrase "praise the Lord" into every sentence they spoke. It looked like I was about to find out just how evangelical they still were.

Next up: Hotel Interim

Chapter Sixteen: Whatever Works for You, Doc.

I was pretty relaxed the rest of the evening, even though I was wheeled down bed and all to the X-ray department for a pre-op image of my hip. I had to be moved from the bed to the examination table, quite an uncomfortable amount of movement for my broken hip. Fortunately there was plenty of help to move and position me for the front and side images, and I was mentally prepared to take everything the techs had to do in stride having worked as a transporter for an x-ray department years ago. I actually got a fitful sleep that night and looked forward to getting the whole operative procedure over with. By the time the orderlies came to pick me up from my room the next morning I was already premedicated for surgery and feelin fine. I was as amicable as could be with the nurses and staff; these could've been the last people I'd ever see. I was also grateful to have such a professional crew to treat me, I always had nothing but confidence in the thought that they'd give me a great chance at recovery. There was a last second change in plans, though, when my surgeon spoke with me in pre-op to express some concerns. Originally he had planned on accessing my fractured hip through the side. That would have required me to be placed face down on a cumbersome looking operating table designed specifically for the procedure. He was concerned, however, with my broken nose and the chest tube that was still connected to my chest cavity. Then there was the issue of my past history with epileptic seizures. For these reasons the surgeon told me that he would enter the broken hip through the front, with my being place face up for the surgery. This, he explained, would leave a longer and more noticeable scar. I knew, from the internet info that I had read on the procedure that it would also mean more blood loss and a longer recovery from the muscles and tissue that would have to be sliced to access the area to be repaired. I didn't care. I was ready, partly because I knew I needed the operation if I had any chance at walking again. I was also very confident in the Doctors abilities, his whole demeanor exuded confidence. And I was, of course, thoroughly pre-medicated. I looked up at him and said "whatever works for you, Doc!", and that was it. He smiled and left to prepare for my surgery. The anasthesiologist came in and introduced himself and asked a few questions. I told him of my concern about post operative nausea; the pain from my broken ribs would have been greatly exasperated from any heaving fits. He told me that he'd give me something for the nausea, then said that he'd give me something to calm me down. I watched him inject something into my I.V. line, and just like that I was out like a light.

When I came to I was in the post op area of the surgical ward. No nausea! I looked down and saw a bundle of bandages covering my newly repaired hip. The traction device was gone. I made it through surgery and was feeling great! The nurse came by to check on me and I told her that I was ready to go back to my room.

Next up: Where Do I Go from Here?

Chapter Fifeteen: When a Nice Sunset Might be Your Last

My parents came to my hospital room the next day. My mom looked like she was going to cry. My dad looked like he was surprised to see me still breathing. My ex never did visit me at the hospital, although she was notified. She kept an update on my condition through my friends. I knew that I faced surgery to repair my hip. The impact was so sever that the femoral head of my leg actually protruded through the acetabulum [hip joint]. My pain was dulled with self-administered morphine injections through my I.V. line. I didn't like the way the morphine made me feel in general, but it was an effective pain reducer. The most pain I felt was when I once tried to sneeze. I took a deep inhale and started to cough, but the pain I experienced from my broken ribs felt as though the blood in my entire body had suddenly turn into needles. I caught the sneeze before its completion. It would be several months before I'd allow myself to cough.

There was a lot of discomfort; the hip injury and traction device limited my lateral movement, the catheter that was inserted through my broken rib cage to re-inflate my lung along with the foley catheter [for urination] felt strange and quite unnatural, the I.V. tube that needed to be flushed and occasionally reinserted was a nuisance and the torn rotator cuff in my right shoulder painfully limited my motion. There wasn't much I could do without experiencing severe pain.

The food was good, the nurses were friendly and professional; likewise for the medical technicians that performed the tests that were ordered. The doctor that stitched up my forehead would occasionally drop in to check his handiwork. He was young, probably an intern. Sometimes I imagined him riding in on a skateboard. Eventually I met the Doctor that would perform the surgery to install the metal chain and screws that would bind my hip joint back together. He was confident and very professional. He even gave me the option of not doing anything at all; to let the hip heal as it was and hope for the best. But my parents had dropped off some information that they had obtained over the internet outlining my sort of injury and the surgical techniques used to repair the damage. I knew I needed the surgery if I had any chance of walking again. Walking had always been my favorite form of exercise, there was no question that I'd go for the surgery. I remember staring out of my hospital room window watching people walk to and from their vehicles located in the parking structure below [I was on the fourth floor]. Would I need a walker or a cane for the rest of my life? According to the surgical info I had, 20 % of the hip repair surgeries performed "go badly". Would I ever walk again?
The thought of surgery always terrified me. What if something went wrong? What if the surgeon hiccuped and accidentally severed something he wasn't supposed to sever? I had a lot of anxiety about the procedure right up until the night before my surgery. I was staring out of the hospital window at a beautiful fiery red and orange sunset over the hills of Palos Verdes when I said a little prayer. I prayed "God, if I die on the operating table, your will be done. But if I somehow make it through and get back on my feet, please show me a path to being a positive and productive person who can help other people." You know what? All the anxiety I had about my surgery completely disappeared. I had absolutely no worries. I had made my peace with God.

Next up: Whatever Works for You, Doc.