A friend posted on Facebook asking about how varied ones music collection is. I replied and got chided for not stating what I have in my collection. As I listed a name in my varied collection, a memory or a feeling would emerge. Something to remind me of my connection to that music. For me music is the backdrop of my life. Songs are connected to times & events in my life. They are also tied into my mood and what I am focusing on in my life. There is always a song running through my head. Always. The one I hear when I wake up gives me a clue into what my subconscious has been processing. This is how I work. I understand there are those out there whose minds are not constantly churning thoughts & ideas complete with their own soundtrack. I find that fascinating and would love to chat with you sometime. The next morning I realize that I didn’t put a couple of artists on my list that my friend would be interested in. The artists wander through my head & I stick on a song. I try to let the song go as I instantly know where that song goes and do not care to visit that memory today. As I ponder the interconnectedness of music & memories & feelings, I wander back to that song. Sigh.
March 4, 2015. No, I am not a date person but this one registered. This memory is one I hold gingerly as it is encased in an orb of jagged glass shards. This is the day of cancer surgery number 5 for my love. I have been up since at least 3AM. We had an ice storm the day before and it was barely above freezing. I had to drive the hour and a half to the hospital to be there really early. Maybe 6AM? Matt had been hospitalized since Valentine’s Day so he was already there. A week of that was spent locally as they quickly shipped him down to the big ol’ world renowned hospital. Not that he was critical or anything, just complicated and if he needed immediate surgery they didn’t want to touch him. That is a story for another day.
So before the surgery day, the doc had given us 3 scenarios for what he was going to try to do to help my man. 3 options. It sounded like he had all the bases covered. These surgeries take a while because docs like to go slow and be thorough when dealing with one’s intestines. Surgery was moved to a different building and started 2 hours late. Par for the course in the medical machine. 2ish hours later and the doc is scrubbed out and coming to tell me how the surgery went. I know full well it did not go as it should as the doc should still be working. He should be fixing up my man. Removing the blockage. Getting out whatever cancer he could find. Not all washed up and chatting. They bring you to a little room furnished with a few chairs, a desk, and a loveseat. First I sit in the chair by the desk. Alone in my corner of the room. Then I realize that I may want someone next to me when the doc says something I don’t want to hear. I move to the loveseat where my pastor is sitting. “That’s a good idea.” I think to myself. The doc comes in and starts talking. Options A,B, & C didn’t work so he went with option D. Hey, there wasn’t an option D! Doc made one up in the OR. I don’t remember the specifics of what was said. I do recall stating that the prognosis of the diagnosis the CT report had (NOT that he had discussed or mentioned it or anything) that I researched online prior to surgery was a 1-3 month survival rate. The doc stated yes but that was with aggressive treatment. We weren’t doing aggressive treatment. I remember watching the 18 wheeled tanker of reality go crashing through the land of denial and spilling its contents over my in-laws world. I remember my pastor praying. I remember just sitting in the room alone. I remember my cell phone ringing. It was the lady at the front desk because she couldn’t find me as I was sitting in the little room. Matt was having trouble breathing and they wanted me to go talk to him to see if that helped him breathe better. I remember going back and talking to him. I remember my pastor commenting that there were quite a few nurses in there with Matt. I corrected him and told him 3 of them were doctors, not nurses. I remember seeing him with a CPAP mask on to help him breathe. I remember the front desk attendant leading me out of the room as apparently my presence wasn’t helping enough. Then I sat on the loveseat in the corner of the massive waiting room where my crew was camped out. I put on my headphones, leaned against my one friend and cranked the volume up. No one mentioned it was a little loud. It was more than a little loud. I needed noise. I needed loud. Something to prevent the voices, ideas, and thoughts from swirling in my head. Make it impossible to listen to myself. Nothing good would come of me trying to think right now. I put Voodoo by Godsmack on repeat.
Over & over it played until all I could hear and focus on was the song. “Never did I wanna be here again”- true. I didn’t want another surgery and especially not one here at this place. Why can’t we have a surgery where they actually get all the cancer out? It has been a few surgeries since we heard that. Isn’t that how they are supposed to go? “No more meaning to my life”- well life just sorta fell apart this morning. “Breathe in, breathe in”- OK. Eventually the loud volume overloads my brain and it can’t think, feel, or tolerate the noise anymore. I turn it off & just sit with headphones on & my eyes close.
Voodoo will be forever tied to that moment in time. It’s a moment I use to think only happens on TV or in movies. Not to a 30 something housewife living in suburbia. Now it is part of the soundtrack of my life. What role does music play in your life?