One Year Later

I don't know if anyone is still reading this blog. Perhaps some of you are using a RSS reader, and you'll be notified that there's a new post. In any case, I felt it was time to revisit this moribund blog and commemorate the passing of the one-year mark since the Big Accident.

It's hard to put into words everything that's transpired since March 20th, 2008. Now that life has returned to a state of normalcy comparable to what I enjoyed before the event, it's a little jarring to look back and recall the month spent in a hospital cot, struggling at first to survive, and later, to remain engaged and look forward to a life outside of a hospital. It's a trope of medical reminiscences to mention how all of life's 'petty cares' were swept away by the tidal force of a life-changing event, like a serious neck wound, but I think there's no shame in returning to the same cares you carried even after you survive. These days, I worry about my job, my goals in life, the state of my 401k and my relationship with my girlfriend. Those are the things that shape the quality of my life on a daily basis, not the half-remembered hours spent in a specialist's ward. This blog has been a travelogue of my own physical recovery, but I'm happy to say that I'm studying and writing about issues that surround all of us, and not confining my attentions to my internal world. The accident seemed important at the time, but I've been more profoundly interested by the last presidential election and the vagaries of the economy.

That said, I won't dwell too long on medical issues. I haven't spoken with Dr. Smith since my final followup appointment in June of last year, and I'm kicking myself weekly for having forgotten to send him a Christmas card. I will be sending him a card on my birthday in recognition of the anniversary, and to thank him for saving my life. I might schedule a followup appointment, just to see what his professional outlook is after all of these months.

Page and I are still together. We laugh nervously about the accident. She bore the stress of it well during my hospital stay, although in later months we were both on edge and inexplicably angry. I wish I hadn't put her through the kind of experience that she had during that first week. I've promised to ring in my 31st birthday with a nice dinner instead of a hospital trip, so perhaps I can make up for last year. Her craft business is succesful and thriving, economic downturn nonwithstanding.

Gentle Fluffy, who cried himself to sleep nightly whilst I was away, is now fatter and happier than before. As the winter months give way to spring in Washington, the temperature steadily rises and Fluffy seems to rejoice in shedding great tufts of fur that waft throughout the house and aggravate already-aggrieved sinuses. It's good to have my little buddy back.

I haven't attempted to swallow a sword, juggle knives, eat fire or any other stunt since last year. After I got back on my feet, Page and I resumed our weekly visits to the Palace, where I briefly enjoyed a kind of celebrity as a spectacular failure, but most importantly, a spectacle. Later in the year, our attendance slowed, and I haven't been back in weeks. We have new venues to socialize in, as the lustre of the carnival life has dimmed somewhat.

I'm spending more time on the road and in the office than at home, and in some ways that's a good thing. During the runup to the Christmas holidays, one of my coworkers staged a 'team building' activity. Each of the staff members was asked to submit a fun fact about themselves, and the rest of the team would have to guess who submitted the fact during a luncheon. My fact was 'This team member used to perform on stage as part of a carnival show.' To my surprise, no one guessed correctly when my fact came up. After the activity, several people asked what my act was, and I replied blithely that I had been a sword-swallower. It took most of the group a few seconds to make the connection and cast hurried glances to my neck, still bearing a livid scar, to my face, and back again to the neck as the realization set it. Most people were curious. My boss admitted that there had been suspicions that I'd been involved in some kind of elaborate suicide attempt, but he was relieved to learn I had simply been collossaly foolish. Since that day, no one asks about my scar, and the accident was ignored in my year-end review.

I'm in pretty good shape, physically. The scar will probably never fade, but that's fine. My throat feels mostly normal - no problems eating or drinking. When I left the hospital, I was at a frightening 179 pounds. I've since ballooned up to 190, but I attribute that to approaching every meal since I left the hospital as if it were my last.

To be continued tomorrow - life is interrupting!