Sunday, May 12, 2013

SHORT ESSAY - Mother's Day

In lieu of a JPG of Mom, which is unattainable right now... her being born pre-internet and all...


Less than two years ago, The Ambush happened. I was brutally, violently attacked after the debut gig me 'n' my little rock 'n' roll band had, and it's amazing that I'm here in one piece today, and still able to type 55 words per minute.

Every day, everywhere, I encounter things that still fuel both my sense of anger, betrayal, jaded cynicism, confusion, defenselessness, and helplessness that resulted from being a violent crime victim... and my sense of gratitude, amazement, and wonder at the capacity so many people (both public servants and us regular-type folk) possess to rally together to provide all sorts of support for me, and since then, others. With time, the latter emotion grows stronger, and the former weaker.

It takes a long time, I'm realizing. Having those two very different and strong types of feelings co-existing side by side... makes for a heavy set of luggage to carry around every day. But as a bassist used to carting around an SVT rig, I'm used to the heavy lifting. I'm sure I can do this.

There's a manila envelope I have that is stuffed with cards, letters, envelopes, notes, what have you. Each piece of paper in there has at least one name and an address or phone number. These are where personal thank you cards will be sent. It's a sacred envelope, with powerful contents. I have yet to find the strength to write those thank you letters without just plain losing it. My emotions apparently haven't faded very much. Hopefully soon, but... maybe if I go away and write for a while, change the surroundings... who knows.

Mom & the buttered cinnamon swirl raisin toast.

When I was recuperating on the couch at mom and dad's for over a month, with a fractured skull, fluid on the brain, upwards of 30 staples in my head, unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a stretch, first puking my guts out in the hospital from the Percodans, then shunning the Vicodins while at "Chez Couch" because the pain was easier to deal with than the way they made me feel like a total weirdo (as if...), it was Mom who brought me Buttered Cinnamon Swirl Raisin Toast to eat.

Buttered Cinnamon Swirl Raisin Toast. It still tastes better and better every day, thanks to Mom. Who knew a few slices of bread could have such meaning? (Insert some sort of Biblical reference here, perhaps).

Meanwhile, Dad is one of many people who enable the bad memories to fade, and the good ones to be preserved. Today at Mother's Day dinner, he reminded us of something really funny that I had forgotten all about.

As an outpatient at the neurosurgeon's office, I made repeated visits to review ongoing CAT Scan results with the doctor. Large amounts of fluid on the brain were a concern. If it didn't subside, a drain hole would have to be drilled. Yes, in the lower back of my head. I wasn't ready for the medieval stuff yet. Like I ever would be. By the way, seeing your brain scan on a laptop is very, very strange. (And after draining the oil out, you've gotta remember to put the drain-plug back in before re-filling.)

Thankfully, by the third or so visit, the doctor was very pleased that the brain fluid had diminished. With everyone in the room relieved, I commented to the doctor how impressed I was with his professional, kind manner. What followed was this exchange:

DOCTOR: Well, this honeymoon was been great, but I don't want to see you again. It's time to go live your life.

MICK: What about loud sound pressure levels? Is it safe to be exposed to that kind of thing? What about the Rock and Roll?

DOCTOR: I think Rock and Roll is here to stay!

And boom goes the dynamite. I think that's the moment when laughter came back into my life for real.

I'm here to stay for as long as I can. Mom, you and your Buttered Cinnamon Swirl Raisin Toast have always been a big part of that. Now more than ever, really. Thank you.


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