September 3, 2010 - or, To Hell with Curbing Your Enthusiasm

My mother is a saint. She is laid out, all 5’4 of her, asleep on the couch in the corner of this hospital room. She is a Delta Italian. She has lived her entire life in Greenville, MS, but she retains a bit of the Old World. Mass on Sunday morning, rigatoni at lunch. Once in a blue moon, she cusses in Italian. She did just that earlier today. We are on the fifth floor of Baptist Memorial Hospital in Memphis. It is Friday, September 3, 2010. We have been here all week.

I cannot get comfortable. I have two IVs in my left arm, one to receive my meals through, another for my morphine. In my right arm, there is a permanent plastic tap into a vein. This is to make it easier for the nurse to draw blood. I have a catheter in place. There is also something called an N.G. tube, which runs up my nostril, down my throat and into my stomach, and acts as some sort of vacuum to clean away all the bile in my stomach while my intestines wake up from my surgery. I am miserable.

There is a profound loneliness in the middle of the night in a hospital. Machines beep and whirr in sporadic rhythm. Outside, in the hallway, the nurses whisper to each other. An unseen clock in the hallway tics.

There are only so many channels that come through on hospital televisions, and most of those that do are public service stations that give instructional programming to elderly hospital patients. ‘How to Adjust Your Bed’ reads one station header. Mercifully I switch around and find AMC. They are showing the original Rambo.

It is September in Memphis. I look above my horizontal mother, across the room and out the window. There across Shelby Farms Parkway, the lights are on at Christian Brothers High School. I realize it’s Friday night. Football season is beginning. My view is obstructed by the visiting stands, but I can see one corner of the northern half of the field. Occasionally a receiver finishes out a dummy post rout, followed by a mouthy corner. The two players jaw at each other demonstrably. Football season has begun.

Hunter S. Thompson famously began his suicide note with the declarative “Football season is over.” It was February, and he took his own life. Suicide is awful and cowardly and selfish, but if it absolutely must be done, February is as good a time as any. It is the opposite of September. Football season is beginning.

My mother has fallen asleep with her rosary beads still in her hand. I think this is probably the aspect of Catholicism that Protestants find the most absurd – the notion that we can tug on the shirt sleeves of the angels and saints through prayer, and ask them to put in a word with the Big Guy for us. The entire sum of it all is absurd, but like Walker Percy, I am a Catholic because I believe that what the Catholic Church proposes is the truth.

I direct my prayer towards the saints, too. I talk, predictably, to St. Peregrine, patron saint of the cancer stricken. My request of him is obvious. Presently I move to Saint Thomas Aquinas, the most philosophic of all the saints, a Sherpa for the high ice of the cynical mind. I ask him to help me keep my faith. Next I pray to Michael the Archangel. I am asking him to help me be a man, to carry my cross alone. No bitching to my family. No troubling the nurses. Above me, Rambo is murdering a soldier by running his truck off the road. The Dodge Ram explodes upon hitting a ditch bank below. I am asking Michael to pray for me, to help me to not complain about my N.G. tube rubbing my throat raw.

Finally I talk to the Big Papa himself. I am from Mississippi, after all. I make my pitch in the dark direct to the ear of the Lamb. I do not go to sleep. The clock is ticking. The lights are out at Christian Brothers.

I am playing From Dixie with Love on my iPhone when the sun comes up. It is opening day. There has been some discussion of them letting me go this morning. I am begging the nurses.
Finally my doctor arrives. The cluster of lymph nodes they removed is cancer-free. I am cancer-free. No more treatments or surgeries. He says he may hold me here for one more day, to observe the recovery of my intestines. I explain that the Rebels start in an hour and a half. There is some debate, and he appears to be trying to find anyone with an internet connection in the hospital so that I can watch. Mercifully his superior arrives and says he sees no reason to hold me any longer. The nurses unhook all my wiring. My mother is wheeling me towards the elevator and the ranking Doctor pats me on the back.

“Hotty Toddy,” he says.

My sister drives me back to my house. Somewhere along I-240, David Kellum informs me that we are up by three touchdowns. Nathan Stanley is rolling. Hotty Toddy. September is for living.

***

“There will be layers of means to an end, drawn out days before resolution,
Dregs will rain down from all directions, there will be right, there will be wrong.”
- Jay Farrar, Medicine Hat

The rest of the afternoon is something of a harbinger for the Rebels. Midway through the fourth quarter my mother is crying because she thinks I am going to burst the 37 staples in my stomach. The doctors told me not to have any strenuous activity for the next six weeks. They didn’t count on Ole Miss losing in overtime to a Division 1-AA school.

Weeks later I attend my first game of the year. I am late to the game, because I am moving slowly, still. I labor to climb the ramp on the east sidelines. I have chills when I reach the top and look out onto the field. On the first play I see, Jeremiah Masoli lofts a picture perfect touch pass to Ferbia Allen, who has only green in a 15 yard radius around him. He awkwardly drops a sure touchdown. My chill bumps are gone. We go on to lose to Vandy that day.

The following months are a tragi-comedy of errors for Ole Miss. Failure lurks on each snap. We are woefully undermanned and underprepared on defense. What’s worse, this is all entirely unexpected. We were supposed to be decent. An out of the blue turd in an otherwise pleasant punchbowl.

The season culminates in a fitting way. I am alone in the South End Zone Rebel Club, clutching a cup of brown liquor, knocking it back neat. My friends have long since left. I am frantically cheering an ultimately futile comeback against Mississippi State. I am drunk and loud. I look around and realize people are staring. Gray-haired ladies are inching away from me. They grasp their husbands’ arms tightly. I drop my head and take the long rotating walk down the cylindrical ramp in the corner of the south end zone.

***

“Reality it burns, the way you were living is worse…” Jay Farrar, Route

I have been thinking of Saint Dominic a lot recently. His story is one of the more absurdly metaphysical accounts in the Christian canon. Dominic was made witness to the end of days – that is, he was given a preview of how the world would eventually end. The Lord, it is believed, used him as a messenger to deliver the news that this would all be over one day.

One wonders what Dominic did with himself the next day, and the next day, and the next. How does someone insert themselves into the world after they’ve seen the end? What do you do with yourself on a regular Tuesday afternoon when you’re fresh back from the edge? The grass is growing, the clock is ticking. What to do?

A savant said something that stuck with me on the day I was diagnosed. I was pale white and shaking when I told him the news. He said he had been there before.

“You’ll be glad this happened to you, one day,” he said. “One day you’ll know your life wouldn’t be the same without this.”

I have been cancer free for a year today, and I am beginning to understand what that means. Walker Percy writes that no one experiences the pageantry of life quite like an ex-suicide. Those who have been resigned to their own mortality know how valuable their time is. They make a commitment to live each minute with enthusiasm, courage, focus. Those who have been to the edge and back get it. There is not enough time left to tolerate indistinguishable days, or the everyday acceptance of mediocrity. Going through the motions is no longer an option.

***

I am 28 years old. I have carried my best friend to his grave, I have lived through cancer, I have been letdown, lonely, lied to. The mileage has taken a toll. There is not much that excites me anymore. Tomorrow is an exception.

Tomorrow I will find my seat early. I will be wearing red. For the first time in two years I will watch the Rebels explode out of their home tunnel. I carry with me Saint Dominic, patron saint of goose bumps, of rubbing Chucky’s dome, of change and optimism and opening day. Patron saint of starting out fresh. I believe the Rebels are starting anew as well.

In heart-wrenching fashion, Spencer Hall wrote yesterday that to be a fan of a college football team requires a degree of psychological editing, a tug of war between your inner-naiveté and your inner-cynicism. There is a tradition at Ole Miss to lean towards the latter, to pack things in before the season has begun. To cross your arms and expect the worst. I reject that notion. I believe another road remains, and provides no more, except the possibility of taking us away.

It is September. Football season begins. Hotty Toddy.

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