Warning... this is an adult site. If reading or viewing things about what gay men do sexually with one another bothers you - you should not read this blog. This blog is a reflection of my adventures and thoughts. Some are fun, some not so pretty. I won't name names, or kiss and tell... but I will live to tell. And baby, trust me - I am gonna spill it all over your pretty little party dress. Enjoy!
After leaving the boyfriends' at 5:30 pm, I decide to check on my beloved prairie to make sure that plastic tarps, which had been part of the winter activities there, have been removed as promised.
It is grey, slightly windy and it has been sprinkling, but I am determined. I also have a bit of a headache. Seasonal allergies? So, before heading down the trail to the prairie, I reach in my bag and come up with my handy pill container. This plastic divided container had accompanied me on my European trip in 2019 and had proven quite handy, so I keep it in my bag on-going. I pop open one of the pods and take two pills I believe are aspirin.
Once in my mouth, I think, 'Strange. Tastes like soap.' I shrug it off, thinking that perhaps they've been in the container too long.
I make my way to the prairie and sure enough, the tarps, as promised, are gone. But then, so is my sense of balance. I feel odd. Sinking.
Suddenly, I'm strangely tired, although, in truth, I simply feel as if I'm becoming detached from the world around me. I think... I have to get home. But there isn't a sense of urgency. Anxiety is no where to be found.
I don't remember getting back to my car. I do remember starting the car and thinking, I will be home in ten minutes.
That was at about 6:20 pm.
I don't get home until 9:45 pm.
I have no idea where I went. But I was driving almost the whole time. I even got on I-94 at some point.
And I recall finding a park, stopping and trying to use my phone to ask for directions home. The park is somewhere southeast of the cities - in the middle of nowhere. I recall a farm field abutting the park, so I know I drove a long way. Next thing I know, I'm downtown St. Paul. The car kills several times, due to the fact that I'm having difficulty coordinating the clutch and gas pedal. I make a conscious choice to pull over and park. It's on a one-way street and I park between two signs that make it clear... do not park here. But I do, getting out of the car to scrutinize the signs. My attention is then drawn across the street to what I think is a bearded man wearing a gigantic lime green fake fur coat and a funny hat, like a Cat In The Hat hat. He is standing in front of what appears to be the entrance to a military bunker. There are no windows.
I remember being ushered inside. Once there I notice the dull brown carpet which appears to have been trod to death and never vacuumed. There are coins in/on the carpet and as I set my bag down I am tempted to say... 'Oh, look, I've dropped all the change out of my bag!' - because, for some reason, I really want those coins. I look down the room to a kitchen that is nothing but cupboards, all very tall. The ceiling is very tall, I can't even see it and the room just fades to black as I look past the kitchen. It feels like a hallway. There are no windows. I turn to my right and the man in the coat is sitting on something that looks like a gigantic crunched up brown grocery bag. I think it's his bed.
I remember looking for my little sex bag, only to find that it is already sitting at the foot of the giant crunched up brown grocery bag. As I reach for it, the man tells me that it is late and that he hasn't eaten. Next thing I know, I am getting into my car. I use my phone to Google directions.
I don't remember driving home, but I do remember reaching the street to the east of ours, knowing I was going to make it home. I creep down the alley and get into the garage.
My ex is there. He asks if I am alright. I remember going downstairs and doing my usual key check. My car keys are missing. I think I left them in the car. I go out and realize that the side door to the garage is locked... and the key to open it is connected to my car key. My spare car key is on the back of the door in the kitchen. I get it and head out. Sure enough, my car keys are sitting next to the emergency break.
I get back into the house and the ex is upset. It turns out I went outside in my underwear. He asks what I am doing and, later I learn, I threw my spare key to him and then returned to my bunker.
I slept heavily. And in the morning, I am very happy, until I start to realize I don't really know what I did the previous night.
It turns out that those pills were not aspirin. For my trip in 2019, I remember having brought generic Ambien with me, two tablets - one for the flight to Europe and one for the return trip. I did take something on the plane, but never fell asleep during either flight - which I thought odd at the time - Ambien typically works well for me.
Well, apparently, I had taken the aspirin on those flights to and from Europe.
And two Sundays ago, when I had a headache? That's when I took the Ambien. Both of them. At the same time.
With this realization comes a wave of horror. I can't believe what I have done. I drove in that condition - for hours. Think of all the lives I put at risk... including my own. If you ask me? I will tell you I am not that great of a driver. That's one of the reasons I do not like to drive. How in the world did I tool around the metro area for three hours without causing an accident? How did I avoid detection? How many motorists did I piss off or scare to death? How is it the cops didn't pull me over?
I talk to the ex about what happened. He says I was was simply acting very strange.
I look through the black hole I call a bag and nothing is missing. I run to my car and check it for damage or signs of impact. It's fine.
I spend the whole day trying to wrap my head around what happened. That night, as I'm trying to fall asleep I rise with a jolt... what if I am actually dead and my brain simply hasn't accepted the fact? That keeps me up most of the night. At one point I start to cry because I don't want to be dead. I don't want to 'pretend' live. And then, the more I think about, my position moves to... so what? I'm dead. If this is dead, it's not bad. At least the bed is nice.
It takes me until the end of that Wednesday to start to feel okay.
--- ---
I just Googled 'weird things people do on Ambien' and found this immediately:
"However, it also comes with a host of known side effects, including decreased awareness, hallucinations, changes in behavior, memory problems, sleepwalking, sleep eating (and cooking), and even sleep driving. In fact, Ambien has become rather notorious for its weird and wacky side effects."
My new prescription for generic Ambien has a shape to it, so I can differentiate it from other pills. I rarely take it and I have certainly never taken it by accident.
Enough time has passed so when I think about what happened and what could have happened... I'm only overcome my a small rush of anxiety.
I still have no idea what happened.
I am pretty sure I am not dead.
But if I was a cat? I'm pretty sure I just used up another one of my lives.
Atula
(alias: Man-tool-ah, Mandingo, Tallulah, and Atula the Hon) passed away on
Monday, September 29th after a lengthy illness.
He had
Cushing’s disease, which decimated his immune system resulting in a staph
infection on his skin and crippling arthritis.
I miss
the way he smelled; yeasty and sweet.
He was
such a big baby, always screaming (and I do mean screaming – he was deaf and
had no volume control and did not bark) for treats. It used to drive me crazy, get on my nerves. His
runaway hunger was another symptom of his Cushing’s. That, and his unquenchable thirst; he drank a
ton of water.
Near
the end, he had difficulty breathing and would frequently lose the use of his
hind legs - no longer able to get up and down the back steps by himself. Then came the small seizures,
which would terrify both him and me.
It’s a
hard to decision to make.
I saw
the writing on the wall weeks before my ex did.
But I held my tongue, knowing my ex would have to come to terms with it in
his own time, which he did.
Atula.
I miss
him. All the room he used to take up in
my house. All his weird smells. His Ernest Borgnine face. And all his noises:
the screaming, the snorts, the snoring.
He was
a monster.
But he
was my monster.
The
house is so quiet now.
--- ---
The
evening before we were going to put Atula down, my car was involved in a minor
car accident that resulted in a momentary lapse on my part culminating into a
rather life altering situation.
Stopped
at a stoplight, on my way home after a weekend at the boyfriend’s, the car
behind me was hit from behind, pushing her car into mine. The car that caused the accident sped
off. It was dark, and even though the
damage to my car was minor, I decided to do the right thing and stay with the
young woman as she waited for the police.
I didn’t want her to be alone.
An hour
and a half later, they finally arrived.
It was
now very late and I was very tired.
I took
my bag from my car, got out my driver’s license and insurance information,
leaving the bag on the trunk of my car. The
officer checked my car (minor damage), took my statement, and I was given
permission to leave.
I got
in my car and drove off.
Once
home, I parked in my garage and reached over for my bag.
Oops.
I’d
driven off with it still on the trunk of my car.
In a
panic, I drove all the way back to the scene of the accident and retraced my
steps, finally finding the bag in the middle of the twisty part of a rather odd
entrance ramp to I-94. I pulled over as
soon as I safely could and ran like a madman to retrieve the bag.
Playing
chicken with the on-coming traffic, I ran back and forth, grabbing as much
stuff as I could (picking up two credit cards and a wallet that did not belong
to me in the process). Once back in the
car, I realized everything… and I mean everything – was smashed to bits. Digital camera and keys smashed. All my USB flash drives – containing: all my
personal pics, the excel files with the stats from my sexual activities during
the last five years, all my planned postings for the ‘Friday Fun’ series – pics
I’d been collecting for over seventeen years, all the writing I have done for
my blog including things that were in process or never published, and… the
books. Both books. All the related work product and all the
outlines for future books… irretrievably gone.
I was
crushed.
And
muted.
Stupid,
stupid, stupid.
The
boyfriend (who got on his bike and rode down to the scene of the accident to
help me look for my bag) suggested we take the USB drives to a place in St.
Paul, to see if anything could be rescued.
Nope.
Nothing.
I can’t
seem to wrap my head around it. And I am
not sure how to recover.
The
entire first book was printed out (people had been reading it), so I can retype
all that. And my work friend, who had
been reading the second book as I wrote it, sent me the first fifteen
chapters.
But
everything else?
I don’t
know how to recover.
I’m
still in shock.
So, I
avoid. I avoid writing, I avoid
planning, I avoid getting back to work.
Then,
when Atula passed away, it hit me harder than I imagined.
He had
spent the first twelve years of his life locked in a kennel for up to twelve
hours at a time. I remember how timid he
was in the fenced-in backyard that first day.
He had no idea what to do.
Needless to say, he made up for lost time that first year. He loved being outside. And he loved stretching out on his big bed on
the living room floor. For a year – his life
was the best it had ever been.
But
then the Cushing’s took over.
And
then it was all over.
That
same week, at work, we began prepping for an audit. The prep work ate up two weeks, followed by
two weeks of dealing with the auditors.
I kept thinking I would get back to writing, but…
No.
Because…
I lack motivation.
I lack
heart.
Writing
is fun but a lot of work and…
Writing
is just another pipe dream; one I don’t want to put any energy into.
Because
if my life has taught me anything it’s that, for me, pipedreams are a waste of
time, money and energy. And I am tired of wasting time (which I don’t
have much left of), money (which is always in short supply) and energy (see ‘money’).
So, I
haven’t been writing since.
I’m
trying to get over it. Maybe I’ll get
over it.
On July 18th I had a mountain bike accident. That evening I lifted weights for an hour. The weather was wonderful so I felt I should take advantage of it. I got my bike ready and set out on a familiar trek – about 5 miles from my home. Near the three-hole golf course there is a gravel/dirt road that leads to numerous bike trails that weave in and out of the woods. I generally avoid the more ambitious trails and stick to the ones I find interesting, but not dangerous. I had been riding for about an hour and a half when I realized that the light was beginning to fade. I had worked that day as well and that, along with the exercise, began to take its toll. I was a little tired.
Straddling my bike, I stood at a fork in the road. To my right was a simple slope of baby grass and black, moist soil; an easy exit to the road that would lead me back to the black top path that would take me home. To my left – a steep hill made of gravel. Its wicked curve and wild unevenness added an extra thrill. In the past I’d carefully gone down this hill, squeezing my breaks gingerly, carefully so as to ease my way safely. Two days before, I had taken this same road full bore and survived. I had been exhilarated by the risk involved and more so when I made it down to the bottom successfully. So I decided to go for it.
I didn’t make it.
I remember missing the groove of the curve and sharply overcompensating to the left – too sharply – the gravel slipped under my tires, and I hit the weeds. Tall grass gone to seed flies past me as I hear a little voice inside my head say… oh-oh.
And then – nothing.
Next thing I remember: I’m walking up a hill with my bike in pitch darkness. It dawns on me that there are people following behind me to my right. I stop short and ask, ‘Where am I?’ A voice from behind says… ‘Just keep walking’. I do. I ask what’s happened. The voice, a bit impatient, says, ‘You’re almost there’.
Later in my hospital bed I realize that at the time, I thought I was in line to go to the afterlife… whatever that might be. I remember moistness on the right side of my face and that I was completely hunched forward, my shoulders felt odd and I could not move my head. I felt the handlebars of my bike for my tee-shirt – yep, it was still there, tied tight.
We reach the top of the slope and I recognize the blacktop path that normally I would take home. There’s a police car. An ambulance pulls up. I say – to no one – that I just want to go home now. Someone takes my bike. I’m led away. Questions. I try answering… I give them a name - the wrong name. I can’t remember phone numbers. They clamp something hard around my neck and lay me down. Again, I request to go home, as I would for the next four hours each time I catch someone’s eye.
I never see my bike again.
The ride in the ambulance. I don’t remember. Much. Into the trauma center. My shorts are cut off me. A whirl of people overhead. X-rays. Pain. Someone tries to remove the brace around my neck – I scream. Pain shooting up over the back of my head. They stop. They slow down. They want to give me morphine. I refuse. I hate that stuff. I ask for a Valium. No one laughs. I keep trying to give them phone numbers. The numbers make no sense. I try to tell them about my dogs who need to be let out – who are alone. I keep asking what day it is. I keep asking what time it is.
I begin to remember… the bike. The gravel. The weeds. Oh, how stupid. Stupid me. What have I done?
Lots of x-rays, a CAT scan, an MIR. Trips on a motorized gurney, trips that eventually make me sick to my stomach. They roll me on my side and I hurl all over the walls. I forgot to eat dinner. What time was it? Phone numbers. No water? A wash clothe to my lips. No water. Maybe surgery. The whirl of people resides. There’s a gun shot victim on the other side of the curtain. They scramble away. Judy stays with me. She cleans my face. Nasty. Dirt. Grass. Judy is nice. Very kind.
I am sent to the fifth floor. Moved, painfully, into a bed. I try not to make too much noise – they keep threatening me with morphine. I need to stay awake, aware. Phone numbers. Someone is missing me.
Tony is on the phone. It is 1:30 in the morning. Flan, my new nurse asks if he should come. I say yes. Tony is there. He has been frantic. Worried. I had been a John Doe for about 5 hours. I ask him NOT to call my family. This is no big deal. The next morning? My family is there… Mom and Dad. My niece. Mom cries. I tell her it’s not that bad. They give me something for pain. It starts with a ‘G’.
Tally: Bad concussion, broken neck (two places), a chip in my skull where the skull meets my spine (and a crack up to the middle of my head), both shoulders hurt, 9 bad ribs, and the right side of the face is total road rash. Lucky I didn’t lose an eye.
Lucky. Lucky, me.
Could have been worse. Not a scratch from the chest down. I am upbeat and try to minimize injuries – I don’t want more pain meds. I want to go home. Three months in a neck brace? What? Why? No more pain meds, please.
I flew off the bike. I landed. I guess. I guess, because I blacked out. I only remember hitting the weeds and feeling the oh-oh. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I wasn’t wearing my cap. I wasn’t wearing a helmet! Apparently – two other bikers either saw the accident or came upon my prone body. They called 911. I don’t know if I got up and picked up the bike or if they helped me. The ambulance could not drive back to where we were - we had to walk the half-mile of road to meet them. It grew dark fast. By the time we reached the top of the slope where the police and the ambulance it was pitch black and I don’t know if I am going to heaven or hell. Or if there even are such places. I walk slowly in darkness and do what the voices behind me tell me to do.
I was lucky.
I am lucky.
I hate my neck brace. My head feels like it’s being squeezed out of an eggcup. I should be on the cover of National Geographic. The ribs don’t bother me much. No pain meds. I say things that don’t make much sense for a few days. On the fourth day I see my face. On the fifth day… I go home. Tony is very good to me. He was scared. Me too, a little. Tony baby-sits. My parents baby-sit. I get lots of cards. People at work are worried. Everyone is very kind.
My right ear is blocked. I am having some hearing issues. My right shoulder feels dead, numb – temporary nerve damage? I get dizzy easily and list to the left as I walk. Vertigo. Rooms spin. My middle ear. That first week I sleep a lot – not so much now. My back is always in knots. My posture, horrible. My body feels warped. This too shall pass. Please.
I manage to pick-up my summer management class. On the first night at the hospital, when I was told I could not go home, I then tried to broker a deal where I could go to class the next evening – my plan was, that if they let me go to class – I wouldn’t come back to the hospital. I’d go on the lam. That was a no-go, too. But my instructor is very kind. The midterm is delayed for a week. I read when I can. Study. Sleep. I go to the midterm exam. She gives me a few mercy points. I am still having trouble remembering things – words. I hang on and finish the class. My memory is good, although I still talk nonsense now and then.
I am lucky. And lost. But mostly grateful. I go back to the doctors next week. I hope they will let me out of this neck brace. I hate it. But it’s better than the alternative. Yes, I am lucky. Grateful and lucky.
Thank you to everyone who has sent a kind word, a card, taken time to help. I am very grateful. Thank you Mom and Dad.
