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I am not perky even in normal situations. Indeed, I am already among the medicated, for depression and anxiety, and I have been going to therapy since 1990. So, taking leave of my family before surgery, I have a lot of thoughts, and not all are about the beauty of another 30 years on this planet. I am wrestling with all the things I have not gotten done and what existence is even for, or meant to be. I kneel down to say goodbye to Ty.
"Are you very sick, Daddy?"
I look at our son, a three-year-old standing in front of a hospital door. I am not sure what he can know or feel in these moments, or what he will remember. He likes Derek Jeter and Hot Wheels and waffles. And the Kinks:
I sang him "Waterloo Sunset" every night in his crib.
"Yes, pal, but the doctors are going to help me," I say.
"Can we play airplanes again when you get all better?"
Airplanes. Our little game at the beach. Running, arms out like wings, splashing through the surf. Crouching there on this cold November morning, I look at the face of a little boy and know what I need to do. I've got to get us back to the beach. Tynan has taken all the big, twisty, scary "issues" off the table and replaced them with one vision: my family and me, back on Cape Cod. To have that again, no matter what should happen later or in between, is something I can work for. From now on, next August is the focus. Why think further?
An hour or so later, I am lying on a gurney in my ridiculous gown, the first of the scores of IVs pricking my arms. Two circles have been drawn on my neck with an orange Sharpie: The one on the left says yes; the other, on the right, says no. Faces swirl as the drugs announce themselves. It is the first moment of everything that comes after. And lying there, I see the mixed bag of life in a piece, full of disease and pain and regret -- and my friends and that water, and, especially, playing airplanes again. What a beautiful mixed bag it is.
"Are you ready?" I hear my surgeon ask. It's the last thing I remember before my new life starts. Let's go.
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