Uncle John’s Log & Co.

— released from the hospital yesterday
— recuperating here at the Town House

Bruce had his re-constructive abdominal surgery at U.K. yesterday, and it was a long Friday for all of us. I slept in a deep, dream-filled state, waking up to a bizarre, nightmarish memory (Dadbo being lost in a sinkhole at the farm), in addition to a separate—but quite lucid—idea about writing the definitive history of the anti-fluoridation movement, wrapped in a biography of our erstwhile friend and client, John Yiamouyiannis, the central figure in a decades-long struggle against the corruption of entrenched political power. Yes, it was a rather strange morning, but that’s not uncommon when I sleep like the trunk of a fallen oak on Widow’s Knob.

Bruce came through his latest ordeal with flags flying, although he’s experiencing a bit of severe pain that complicates matters, to say the least. Most of what was left of his long-idle large intestine was stapled to the ileum, and the bothersome contingency from 2005 is history. This should solve the problem of his chronic dehydration. There’s a portion of descending colon that could neither be utilized nor removed, so that segment remains, taking advantage of a previous drain-hole in his side to complete the overall plumbing design. Surgeon Chang seemed pleased with the outcome, considering the very real possibility that he might face no option except shrugging his shoulders and sewing up Bruce’s belly, had the scenario proved too dangerous or daunting. There was no way to tell how “do-able” the procedure might be until the team was inside. Everything was accomplished in less than three hours.

So, now he faces 5–10 days in the hospital. His summer fitness program should give him a distinct advantage in bouncing back. I’m praying he can win the coin toss, as far as the 50-50 chance for developing an infection following this kind of surgery. Once again, he stays on top of the odds, and successfully knocks off another obstacle in his marathon recovery from pancreatitis. The outlook for a potential kidney transplant has just improved significantly. Hang in there, my son…

~ The Saga of Bruce Joel

Dana put it best in her brief notice to family—

“Born in ’66, Bruce turns 40 years of age today, due to your intercessory prayers, no doubt.”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my stalwart son. I love you, forever…

In spite of a lengthy planning meeting at the Clan Hall, our soldier celebrated being at home with his family. During a break in the deliberations, Rita took a group portrait outside, and then the cake was cut. Joan insisted on eating Joshie’s head. The long day ended with Dana taking Bruce to the ER after his visit to the farm. Jerome put in some overtime to help identify symptoms of medication withdrawal that were alleviated. Bruce improved so rapidly that he walked home from the hospital.

— Josh comes home to his Clan for a mid-deployment visit.

— Mack stops by the Town House and we talk about my old saxophone.

— Gov. Fletcher appoints me to the Kentucky Bicycle Commission.

— A major international Arts and Crafts exhibition unexpectedly comes to our attention.

— We hike back Horse Lick Hollow for Marty’s first visit to the Clan’s little “Pine Forest.”

— Seth and I complete the long-overdue “Pirate Revenge” video.

— I experience my first artistic fellowship with a group of Layerists.

— The exalted Plastic Mullet Series honors yours truly.

— I have the opportunity to design the poster for Sheldon Tapley’s painting.

— David treats me to another great hunting weekend in the Knobs.

— Jay and Glenda make their vows at a wedding ceremony in Liberty.

— Dana and I thoroughly enjoy listening to Gates of Fire on tape.

— After Aunt Alma’s funeral, Dana, Jerome and I pray at the Shrine of the Holy Relics.

— Caitlan takes us all to Oxford with her captivating England Blog.

— I discover the extraordinary young writer Paul Watkins and hook myself on his work.

— Marty and I conduct our first camp-out on “Widow’s Knob.”

— The Clan gathers for Mombo’s 80th-Birthday tribute at the Boone Tavern and Hotel.

— Dana and I celebrate our 23rd Anniversary in Augusta, Kentucky.

• • •  and the top highlight of 2005  • • •

— Bruce battles through kidney failure, septicemia, and the various complications of severe pancreatitis to defy—by the grace of Almighty God—the medical odds against his survival.

Bruce is out of surgery, doing well, and will go directly back to the fifth-floor renal unit rather than into critical care, and that’s the best news of the day. The surgeon said he broke up and removed a pool of pus around the spleen the size of a “small dinner plate.” He irrigated the area and put in a “rubber-band drain.” When I asked him if he had to remove the spleen (something they warned might be necessary), he said, “No.” It looks to me like he tried to get the most benefit from the shortest procedure and smallest incision, since Bruce can’t handle much time under anaesthesia until he gets stronger. This postpones for another operation the intestinal reconnection and a minor pocket of infection around his nonfunctional, transplanted kidney, which could disappear on its own, if all goes well after today.

Pam said she was told that Bruce is only the second patient in the history of the medical center to survive this long after such a severe case of pancreatitis.

Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria.

• An excerpt from Dana’s most recent update:

“Last night Pam went out to celebrate a new job, and I prepared a
gourmet meal for Bruce—venison medallions with balsamic reduction and
celery/pear puree, plus a side dish of steamed fresh beets.

“Pam came in after I’d gone to bed, so she wasn’t apprised of the menu. In the middle of the night when she helped Bruce with the ostomy, she saw what she thought was blood and called the doctor. At 5 am, she woke me and said we were to take Bruce to the ER. I drowsily pulled on my jeans, put on shoes, and drove them to the hospital.

“While we waited for results of ordered tests, we were all talking and
Bruce said something about having beets for dinner. Then it hit us. It
wasn’t blood; it was beets. We all were laughing when the resident came back in, and we confessed to the false alarm, which was confirmed by a negative result on the test for hemoglobin.

“Our mirth was short-lived, however, as they had determined that his
white blood count was too high. They said they would start him on an
antibiotic and send him home. Later they said they wanted to keep him
for diagnostic tests until tomorrow. By this evening, they’re saying he might stay 3 to 5 more days.”

(The “headline” is Bruce’s quip, so he’s keeping his sense of humor.)

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-6; Bike-0; Run-2; Lift-0.

— I won’t even try to elaborate on the sad state of my fitness program. At least I continue to swim, although I need to boost that monthly total to a minimum of eight workouts. On the bright side, I had a decent session yesterday and was only a second off my all-time fastest 4-lap sprint. Now, when am I going to get back on my bike?

— In the past 24 hours or so, my niece Caitlan (sister of
Brendan) successfully winged her way to Europe. Her mom’s advice: “Have the time of your life!” I’ll second that motion.

— I spoke to Josh Sunday when he called during the Clan gathering. I really didn’t know what to say to him. I’m terrible on the phone in those situations. Always have been, I guess. We talked a little about his current assignment, until he goes back out on the road, and whether his area was in danger of any mortar attacks. I told him how much I support what he’s doing, but it didn’t sound as strong as I feel about it. You know, if I had to make my log entries with a telephone I’d never do it. I’d just scrap
this whole thing.

— Bruce has dodged another bullet, enabling him to fight onward toward the day he gets to go home. Frankly, I don’t know what a home life is going to be like for him when it’s restored, but I’m certain he looks forward to it with an abiding desire that provides a strong source of fortitude. I’m aware that I haven’t mentioned his wife much in this log. Perhaps I’m not confident enough in my own kindness to put thoughts in writing. At this point I’ll just describe a funny New Yorker cartoon that seems apropos: A man is lying in a hospital bed, appearing totally down and out. Tubes, cords, and medical technology are everywhere. A doctor with a somewhat forlorn expression is standing beside a woman dressed in pearls and a fur wrap. Her expression is one of exasperation. She says, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

V & S

I was a patient in a hospital once.

Once.

I didn’t have much say in the matter, but I’m glad I was born. I had my tonsils cut out in a doctor’s office. I think it wasn’t much longer before they made old Dr. Ashmun stop doing that.

Over the years I’ve spent a fair amount of time in hospitals, especially when they started paying me to be there. But now I go primarily to visit people who haven’t enjoyed my extraordinary run of good fortune. That’s ok. I can stand to be around these places. (Like a mercenary must feel hanging around an ammo dump, I suppose.) I don’t have too many illusions left, as far as I know. I think I have a pretty good idea what these places can do and what they can’t. It’s a workplace. Some of these individuals can accomplish extraordinary things, and that’s true of many workplaces. It’s also true that some employees might be having a bad day, a bad week… or maybe a bad life.

If I make a mistake and publish a typo, everybody feels bad, but nobody has a funeral. I’m not an architect. My designs can’t fall down and kill anybody. But an architect has to have a lot of negligent people around if a faulty building gets built. In a hospital, one “oops” can be a life-or-death matter. We like to think those blunders don’t happen very often, but they do. In America. By nice, well-meaning people. If my streak is broken and I find myself in a hospital as a patient, I want a bodyguard.

Bruce has a lot of people looking out for him, pulling for him, praying for him. Maybe that includes you, dear reader. I hope so. If it does, I hereby thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Everything coming to bear on Bruce’s critical condition: the drugs, the tubes, the pumps, the microchips, the highly educated minds… it’s all there to give him a fighting chance. And by God he’s fighting. When I walk into the room I just look past all the gear and all the reservoirs of heaven-knows-what, and I see the inner warrior holding his own, preparing to make his move, armed with the weapons of consciousness, unfettered by the constraints of time and space, fully aware of the only thing that matters…

Victory.