Because people still ask. - MCM
It all changed in an instant. He can now vividly recall the last moments before everything went black.
He'll tell you it all began with new love. That's what changes a lot of things in life. As lives go, his was erratic and exhausting - even on the best of days. For years he had been living multiple lives, simultaneously. He had a respectable daytime career, and he was a well-respected musician in the nighttime. He occasionally taught and lectured as well. The music had started taking over more and more of his life. He was spending more time on the road, and time overseas. His was a life that most would envy - if they could keep up.
He had met a gal in Tennessee and the emotions were explosive. The music took him there often enough that he always had an excuse to see her. His daytime career was such that he could always sneak away for a long weekend.
It was one such weekend when life changed irrevocably. A getaway to Nashville. The hotel room was booked and paid for, but first dinner. A night out, a few drinks, a good meal, and then three consecutive days of pure love.
He remembered laughing and joking. Then he realized he was choking. A genetic anomaly on his father's side of the family - esophageal spasms. He'd had them before. Usually, a quick cough would clear it, but not this time. No air came when he tried to cough. He faintly heard screams. He recalled someone behind him, squeezing him. Then darkness.
When he woke, he was no longer in the restaurant. He knew the smell before he opened his eyes. It smelled like industrial disinfectant. He heard slight beeps, and something that sounded like it was breathing. He could feel a tube in his nose; a needle in his arm; and what was this? A catheter!
He opened his eyes to the sight of an intensive care ward and five people who had no reason to be standing together; a friend's daughter, his new love, his parents, and his eldest brother. They all stood staring at him, a hopeful, expectant look in their eyes. He spoke...
"I have a few questions." The room hushed. He could feel a tube running down the back of his throat. He asked his questions.
"Where am I? What the hell are you all doing together?" and then finally the million-dollar question...
"Can we get this goddamned tube out of my dick?"
His father, a doctor, began to laugh, saying "I think he's going to be just fine."
The ladies all gasped.
His brother just shook his head, looking slightly mortified that, regardless of the situation, his brother was still incredibly crude.
A nurse informed him that she could remove the catheter, but if he was unable to urinate, she would have to put in another. He pissed all over he as she removed it. He figured that answered her question.
He reached up and touched his nose. It felt like duct tape had been used to hold the nasogastric tube in place. He asked the nurse if she could remove that as well. He wondered how long he'd been there.
The nurse was reticent to remove the tube from his nose. It turned out he had attempted to remove it himself many times, hence the restraint on his one hand. The skin under the tape was raw and moist. It scabbed up quickly.
He said he wanted to take a nap. The few brief minutes he'd been conscious had been exhausting.
When he woke sometime later, he'd been moved to a regular hospital room. His brother was gone, as was his friend's daughter. His new love and his parents had been waiting for him to wake.
He had more questions, and they all seemed to be expected. What happened? How long had he been in the hospital? He was confused, but not at all agitated.
His gal explained that during dinner, he turned blue, couldn't breathe, and was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital. He had died en route. State law stated that only a physician could declare him deceased, so he was wheeled into the emergency room. The doctor was almost ready to declare him dead-on-arrival but gave one last attempt to resuscitate him. After a few minutes they had it. A light, thready pulse. The medical team managed to get his heart beating normally and him breathing on his own. The only remaining question: would he regain consciousness?
During his initial health incident, his esophageal spasm caused him to ingest a piece of steak, which collapsed his right lung. His left lung went into reactive pneumonia and filled with fluid. He had, essentially, suffocated and died. He was without a pulse or oxygen for maybe seven minutes before arriving at the hospital.
He spent a week or more in a coma. Even in this state, he was combative. His gal later said it was like he was fighting his way back. He needed a nasogastric tube to keep him from starving. In his comatose state, he broke a nurse's jaw when she tried to insert the tube. After it was successfully inserted, he pulled it out a number of times. His hands had to be intermittently restrained.
Due to his pneumonic state, he was sent to the ICU. Even after the food object had been dislodged from his lung, both kept filling with fluid.
His gal only left the hospital twice the entire time he was there. The first, she had gone to an aunt's house for a shower. The second, was when he asked his parents to please take her out for a meal.
The doctors had been unable to answer her questions. Would he be OK? Would he wake up? Would he be a vegetable? Would he be able to speak? Play music again?
After a few days out of the ICU, the doctors discharged him. He would recuperate at his gal's house. There were a few concerns, however.
His memory was highly questionable. He wasn't always sure where he was or what had happened. He couldn't remember names of family members. He couldn't remember a lot of things.
None of this seemed to bother him. Aside from feeling tired, and like he had a bad chest cold, he was in great spirits.
En route to her house, she stopped at a local pharmacy to pick up some medications the doctor prescribed. She asked him to wait in her car. He just smiled and agreed.
Waiting in the car, he remembered something! He had bought a carton of cigarettes the day he arrived in Tennessee. They were probably in his bag, so he rummaged through it to find them. He couldn't find his lighter, so he used the car lighter. His gal, upon returning to the car to find him smoking, admonished him in the was only a southern belle can.
"Just what do you think you're doing Mister?!"
She reminded him that not only had he just been released from the hospital, but he'd also been in a coma and still had a mild case of pneumonia!
He just laughed it off and flicked his cigarette onto the ground, stepping out of the car to put it out.
The next few weeks were intense for her, and a bit of a haze for him. He couldn't always remember where he was, or what certain everyday objects were. He couldn't figure out how to turn on the television. He couldn't always remember how to open a door. Bit by bit, the basics came back.
His gal had been in touch with his supervisor at his day job. Some friends of his from Wales were visiting the US, and they agreed to watch his house and his dogs until he could return home. He just made his way through - day by day. He took lots of naps. The doctors had said this was to be expected, due to the pneumonia and the injury to his brain.
One day, his gal brought something to him in the living room. It was his guitar. She asked, with obvious trepidation, if he could play something for her. He took the guitar from her and held it like he'd never seen one before.
"I don't play tuba", he answered. His gal looked like she might cry, until he laughed and played a fast boogie-woogie lick. He apologized for his cruel humor. She was just glad that he hadn't lost this skill. He spent much of the rest of the day playing guitar, as well as sneaking cigarettes.
Some things hadn't changed.
After a couple of weeks, he felt he was ready to return home. It was a long drive. Nine hours, at least. He insisted he was ready. She had returned to her job by this point. He attempted to tidy up her house a bit before he left. He loaded his things in his car and prepared for the trip. He wasn't able to find his keys. This triggered a panic. He called her at work, and she came rushing home. He had been holding his keys the entire time. He simply didn't recognize them or what they were for.
It would be another couple of weeks before he was able to make the trip. He clearly had to work on his memory skills.
After six or so weeks, he finally made the trip home. His Welsh friends, and his dogs, were thrilled to see him. He spent a few days with his friends before they resumed their US holiday. It was time for him to resume his life.
His regular doctor routinely tested his memory. It was decided he was OK to return to work. Returning to a routine was good for him. His office was glad to have him back. His friends were all happy to see him.
A lot of people noticed a change in him. His attitude was more positive since he returned. Few things bothered him. He had a smile for almost everyone. The memory loss was evident though. His sister had mentioned a memory from their childhood. He had no recollection of it at all. In fact, he would try to remember his childhood - and most of it was a blank.
He figured most people would be upset by this, but he saw it this way: You can't miss what you don't know you're supposed to have.
One day, he'd stopped at the local store and ran into a guy who was excited to see him! Apparently, they had been close friends. He had to apologize, stating that he had no idea who the guy was. He added that he'd been in a coma. His friend looked crushed. Again, he apologized.
Before the incident, he had recorded a new album. The producer had sent it to Nashville for mastering. He and his bass player made the trip to pick up the finished recordings. While driving down I-40 in the rain, he came up with a title for the album. BACK FROM THE DEAD. The bass player laughed and was happy to see he still had his sense of humor. Of course, being in Tennessee, he got to see his gal. This always made life better.
The long-distance relationship was difficult. They always are. His memory issues persisted, as did his dark sense of humor. She didn't appreciate the latter.
For the next year, he would drive to Tennessee a few times a month. They really tried to make it work, but he was growing oddly distant. He spent any free time he had trying to remember all of the people, places, and things he'd forgot.
He and his gal eventually went their separate ways. It saddened them both, but it was probably for the best. He had changed. He wasn't the same man anymore. Not better, not worse. Just changed.
A tour of Australia was planned. It was a success! BACK FROM THE DEAD was selling well. His first two shows down under were played to crowds of eight thousand or so people. A couple of smaller club dates were added. He made sure to take lots of photos and write in his tour diary, just to make certain he'd be able to remember it.
The short-term memory issues have remained problematic for years.
One night he stopped by a friend's tavern for a few beers. He saw a familiar face walk in. He knew the face but couldn't remember much else. The guy saw him, ran to him and gave him a huge hug.
"I heard you died!" His acquaintance was sobbing.
He joked that he clearly hadn't, then explained, as best he could, what had happened. His familiar-faced friend (whose name he couldn't remember) had moved out of state. Rumors travel well over distances. News of his health scare had morphed into his demise, along with a number of other versions of the story.
It became the norm for him to explain to people that he didn't remember them, apologize, and explain what happened. He started to call it The Great Nashville Beef Incident.
Bit by bit, he got memories back - usually at the most inopportune times. He'd be in the middle of a performance and a vivid memory from childhood would come flooding back. Once he was in the middle of a seminar, and the memory of exactly what happened hit. He excused himself and went to a payphone to call his ex-girlfriend at work. He explained that it all came flooding back. He thanked her profusely for how good she was to him. She was crying. She said she was so sorry that he got that particular memory back. He explained that it was probably a good thing. They spoke for a few minutes, then returned to their jobs and lives.
A depletion of serotonin eventually landed him in the hospital again. It was originally diagnosed as a nervous breakdown. Upon further examination, he'd pushed himself too hard for too long. He was told to take some time off.
He slowed his life down. Changed jobs a few times. Changed careers. Stopped playing music. Started playing again. He grew older. He developed health issues. But he still keeps going.
His short-term memory issues are sort of a running joke between him and his wife. He writes things down if he has to remember them. He leaves notes for himself everywhere.
And he's started writing books.
He'll still occasionally joke that he 'doesn't play tuba'.
People who have known him for a long time have all noted that he's generally nicer now than he used to be. Just don't ask him what happens when we die. He'll tell you that you just won't understand. That much he remembers.
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