We weren’t best pals, but we spent an awful lot of time at the campus pub—The Slick Rooster—cutting classes and drinking, and I suppose we formed a bond, a bond that has surprisingly remained intact over the years. Recently, I got an email from Rob after he heard about my heart surgery:

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Little Buddy:

Holy shit storm!!

I had no idea your ticker was F’ed! You were always so skinny, you’d think it would have hit a bigger, heavier, more powerful guy like me, but hell, it just goes to show that you never know what’s going  to happen in this crazy world. Who knows, eh? I might still end up with Jennifer Aniston!

If I did, I tell you, we would become a political force that could never be stopped.

Robiffer: A fucking juggernaut.

Who was it you were nuts for? Oh yeah, Demi Moore! You wanted her so bad!! You saw that movie Ghost 8 times!

Remember that pottery scene? That was boner city, man!  Demi Moore reminds me of a lady soccer player. It’s the short hair, like she’s a boy only with really hot boobs and a fine, fine ass.

Have you been watching the lady soccer? No, me neither! LOL!!

Hey, gotta change the tone here for a sec, get heavy.

As you know, I spent some time incarcerated in the hospital, too. Unbelievable that a guy as vital and straight-shooting as myself would get the Big C, but I did. Not stopping me, though. Gotta have a positive attitude, little buddy. Just charge through it like you were a big lineman ploughing through a bunch of nerds, or in your case, a nerd beating on smaller, weaker nerds. What’s beneath a nerd on the totem pole of cool anyway? I mean, who do nerds bully? Do you just throw rocks at animals, or are there actually people you can push around? Interested to know as I always try to relate to my constituents. Wanna speak their language, even if it is Nerdlish.

How were your nurses?

Hot or Not?

That was a game I played to pass the time. I would look at each nurse and ask myself, “Would you do her?” I’m not sure what the percentage was, but it was pretty high. There was one little sex bomb name Sylvie.

( .Y .)

 Jesus. They couldn’t let her work on the cardiac floor because she’d send all her patient’s blood pressure through the roof!  LOL!! Shit brick house, that one, and an accent that was better than any porn film I’ve ever seen. Always asked her for a sponge bath– once, I even offered her three hundred bucks for one, but I don’t think her english was too good because she never responded. The city of Toronto has to legislate that everybody fucking speaks and understands ENGLISH and that it is their ONLY language.  Those that don’t comply? Fucking deported.

Loved the drugs in hospital. Hydromorphone.

They’ll tell you to only take one, but screw that, take two, maybe three, for a good high. You will float right to the fucking ceiling and then have the best sex of your life with that goddamn ceiling. It is that good.

It will bung you up eventually, but it’s still worth it.

Get well soon, Little Buddy!

Big Rob

I had major, very complicated surgery, and for two weeks after the operation– first thing in the morning– the attending nurse would always ask me if I knew where I was. It was a simple question, one that I found a little bit insulting even, but the truth was that I just wasn’t sure.

I mean, I knew who I was, that I’d had heart surgery and was in hospital, but I wasn’t clear on what hospital, or where this hospital was located. Some days I thought I was in Montreal, other days Ottawa, sometimes when I heard the rhythms of an African tongue, I believed I was in Cape Town. Depending on the accents, language and ethnicity of those around me, I imagined I was in India, Australia or China, occasionally, even in Toronto, the city in which all of this was unfolding.

Each day was like waking into a dream, a realm where things were still being shaped. The people moving about in my field of vision were distant from me. It was like they existed in another dimension, and communication was mysterious, even impenetrable, as if something fundamentally untranslatable existed between us. I was, I guess, still disconnected from the conscious, living world and through fogs of trauma and medication, remained a spectator to the existent.

I communicated with very few people during this time, but I did send texts to my wife Rachelle. These are some of the ones I sent to her during the early stages of my recovery:

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Very thirsty. Want popsicle but they won’t let me have popsicle. The nurses are all very mean! Don’t understand. Please bring popsicle. CHERRY.

Why are you not here with popsicles? Very lonely. Very lonely for popsicle.

I love you.

Did I miss the spring?

Why are we in Africa? Were we visiting Douglas?

Oh. Not in Africa. Nurse said that, but thought she was lying.

Am scared when the machines beep. They are sounding an alarm to say that something in my body is broken or on fire.

I miss your blue, blue eyes.

My nurse is an assassin. Cruel eyes and self-loathing. Might be a serial killer. Am terrified when brings me my pills. Must kill her patients and then gets drunk at night, feeling powerful.

I want to be in a lake. Dog just about to jump in from the dock.

What’s going on in Game of Thrones? Has everybody been raped and killed or do some survive?

Food here not made with love. Sort of thing you give jailed enemy.

Do I have jailed enemies now?

Would like to have several jailed enemies. That would be AWESOME.

Brian and Laura should be thrown in tower.

Never heard a word from them. They only care about volleyball and renting house for Pan-Am games.

Is Hunstman spider fastest land creature? Can’t remember.

I want to sit on a sloped field of green with you and our son Jones, drinking lemonade on a checkered blanket, the world around us.

She was young and pretty, a student studying to become a dietician, and her youth, cast amidst the somewhat resigned and much older counterculture of porters, seemed to make everybody a little giddy. Her innocence and simple optimism was a narcotic, and all the men stood a little straighter and attempted to make charming remarks around her. She cheerfully pushed me about in my wheelchair as if it was some high school game and not life on the slippery slope, and it made me want to be outside, in the sun of some past, leaning back and resting my head against her and the limitless smell of her hair… but no, no– there is much work to do.

We pass so many people in the hospital corridors. The always smiling Happy Cancer Ladies, who’ve either discovered their bliss through illness or are frozen in panic, unable to move their focus from the positive for one second lest they shatter into a million pieces. Gratitude radiates from them, and they smile at me as if I’m a precocious child, making gentle, almost holy room for my slender passage. And then suddenly, I was part of a long procession of wheelchairs passing by—bald and pale cancer patients, a girl burned with acid from an honour attack and an elderly man with skin so thin you could almost see into his past. The Happy Cancer Ladies stand aside and beam, practically applauding, they’re so sincerely proud of us.

Men who wear brown coveralls run the elevators. All day they live in these boxes, these boxes that open and close like respiration. They sit there, flipping through the Toronto Sun and wondering what else the world might have to offer them, and when the new porter wheels me in, something happens. It’s like everybody has had three drinks and is now wearing their favourite shirt. Conversation pipes up, and everybody is talking and laughing and flirting, dispensing wisdom and jokes about the myriad complications of negotiating the underground tunnels.

“I was her mission, “ I say, “I am the treasure she has returned with.”

The young girl laughed because that is what she does, but the elevator man seemed intrigued, “You are a treasure?” “Yes,” I said mystically, “I can grant you a wish. You tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it.” I expected a joke, but I could see in his face that he would not let this happen. He looked at me, stating plainly, “I want my mother to be here with me.”

I put my hand on his forearm, ” You have to close your eyes and imagine her, thinking of the best, safest times you spent together, and through this you will summon her, and you will feel her touch upon your skin, her scent returning…”

It cast a little spell, this, and the girl made the sound of a small animal that wanted to be hugged, while the man stared off at a distant horizon. As I was being wheeled out, the elevator man wanted to tell me something, a message from a song by King Crimson that his language inhibited him from pronouncing, and as he leaned toward me trying to spell the title out, the doors closed, the potential of this information lingering between us for a moment, and then falling away.

This whole thing, this trek through the land of illness, has the definitive feel of an ancient Greek Odyssey, and I’ve come to believe that I’m on a hero’s quest.

Quietly, at dawn, as I’m wheeled down through the subterranean tunnels that connect the university hospitals, the porters serve as my guides.

Their various languages flock overhead, the mysterious syllables disperse above me and it’s like they’re communicating a kind of weather instead of words. Descending into this unexplored dimension we pass creatures and topography as strange and wonderful as mythology, my porter/guides taking me on obscure missions where I must slay monsters, solve riddles and exhibit great feats of strength and determination in order to inch closer to my destiny, to my ultimate goal.

And somewhere past imagination, our son Jones pours through space. Laid bare to mystery, he carries messages and lessons from beyond. He hurtles through the firmament now, our meteor, cresting planets with a fierce, unstoppable purpose– he’s everywhere at once, multivalent. He’s assembling in slow wonder inside my wife, while I, caught in a terrestrial and mortal struggle, battle to be present, hurrying to be there to catch him, when like some sort of impossible star descending, he falls into our life.

Thin and trembling, he had a big, bushy grey beard and a pitiless look that suggested a hard, unforgiving life. Anti-social and hostile, he shot me a dismissive look when I was first wheeled into the room. “Goddamn it, “ he rasped at the nurse, turning his body away from me as if disgusted, “ what have you done with Carole? I want Carole, not this guy!”  In spite of his fulminating, it was clear that he was not used to getting his way, and without further event he carried his disappointment back behind the separating curtain to his small bed.

Suffering a very serious respiratory disease, each breath was a battle for him, his life reduced to a war that he struggled angrily through everyday. His middle-aged children, bearing Tim Horton’s coffee, appeared every morning when visiting hours began and left much later at night. They talked quietly but without tenderness, as if jockeying for position as their father neared death, and when the nurses walked out of the room they whispered racist jokes to one another. It seemed a display of solidarity rather than love, and embedded within was the unspoken and unsentimental hope for reward.

It’s spooky at night in the hospital. The directionless sound of heavy equipment rolling down the hallway echoes off the walls, and suddenly, startling you from sleep, nurses wordlessly appear, their flashlight beams passing over unfamiliar walls like spectres. The rooms here, they’re not haunted by the past, but by the present.

And in this nocturnal climate, the man changed. He refused to sleep, choosing instead to sit in a chair at the end of his bed, breathing heavily and staring hard. Frightened of dying, of the darkness of night, he talked to himself until dawn, his unknowable interiors made briefly audible, cryptic fragments shaken loose from his speeding mind:

That dirty slut is going to end up in jail.

I’ll be back in the mud again.

There are only four directions in this world.

The meadows will never get greener.

And sometimes he’d move about. Bent like a terrifying hieroglyph or a primitive cave painting, he’d tilt into view, looming prophetically, and existing between worlds he’d stare furiously through me, holding fast to the small things that remained to him before eternity swallowed him whole.